


A Pattern of Impact

by AdmiralOptimus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000s years of pining get ready yall, Alternate History, Confessions, Crowley has some mental health issues, Eventual Fluff, Gen, Humanized Aziraphale, Humanized Crowley, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Nazis, Oblivious Aziraphale, Pining, Realizations, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Some angst, That Eden Scene, dont kill me please, fix-it?, gay idiots, honestly with that timeline this is the shortest slowburn possible, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-04-24 10:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19171699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralOptimus/pseuds/AdmiralOptimus
Summary: Tracking Aziraphale and Crowley's story through history, some scenes you'll recognize, some you wont. Alternating perspectives, settings, times, etc. I can't promise super regular updates, but I can promise some gay shit for our favorite demon and angel.From Eden to Shakespeare to Nazi spies running around churches, it has been 6000 years. And over 6000 years, well, you can't help but form a connection.or:Local Dumbass Demon and Angel take 6000 fucking years to admit their feelings for each other





	1. The Begining

It had always been a black and white world. That wasn't to say that it lacked color- Eden had color aplenty, but it was categorized. Organized. It was a divided world, and it made sense. Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell, Angels and Demons, the whole thing. Right and Wrong. 

That was to say, it all made sense until the third day, when Aziraphale met his first demon. 

It was a stormy day- the first stormy day- and the sky was cracking under God’s displeasure. The humans had disobeyed her, afterall. Her wrath seemed to be a living thing, shifting in the graying skies, heaving and growing and ripping at clouds that were supposed to be fluffy. Looking up at it, Aziraphale almost felt fear, uncertainty, seeing this world so darkened, so changed by her mood. But he knew that was wrong. She was ineffable, after all, and she had a plan.

Aziraphale looked out across the desert, out past the massive wall upon which he stood. Behind him, the garden seemed to have shifted, it’s once gleaming paradise seeming eery and aggressive. It was as if the very ground upon which it stood was on edge, toxins swirling up the tree roots from poisoned soil, the winds whispering at the hunched over humans to go, to leave, their time was up here, they had sinned. 

The watching angel tugged on his tunic. It really wasn't designed for weather like this. What he really wanted was, was, was something that hasn't yet been created. Something snug and sensible, something that didn't threaten to blow away with a good huff of wind. 

This here, while he watched the sky get ready to fall, was when he started to think about good and evil and the whole plan. He had made a decision, a decision he watched unfold as below him, the humans shoved away the final brick and stepped out into the sand, their feet sinking into something entirely new. In the woman’s hand was the only thing in that garden that didn't seem to be hissing threats or darkening. 

It was, in short, Aziraphale’s sword. A flaming one, too.

Gabriel had a big talk with him just the other day about his duty on earth- how he was to be a heavenly correspondent, the correspondent (mostly because the other angels wanted to busy themselves with great planning and all), and how he musnt misplace his sword. That last bit, Gabriel had said, was important, possibly even more important than his duties as correspondent, because that sword would be needed when Armageddon came about, when it was time for the great battle, the great prophecy to come about. 

Aziraphale sighed. He hoped more than anything that he’d done the right thing. He hoped it was particularly angelic- he saw people suffering, they were cold for crying out loud, God had miracled them into existence with only leaves to wear and he was complaining about his tunic, and she was expecting because, as Gabriel explained it, sin follows sin, but still. 

It was going to rain. 

What kind of angel would let a pregnant woman go out into the rain without giving her a sword that also happens to produce fire?

And that was exactly what Aziraphale was thinking when he was suddenly alerted to a new presence on the wall. A new presence- one of which he had heard about, but never felt himself. Uriel had described it as pure evil, but, it wasn't quite that. Dilated evil, perhaps. 

And suddenly, there he was, snakeskin slipping down his body until he came into form. A demon. An evil force.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” The demon mumbled.

Aziraphale stared at his new companion, unsure of how to react. This was a demon. No, this was the demon, the snake who had tempted that woman, the one who caused the end of eden. He certainly looked like a demon, all dark clothes and red curls with a face tattoo. (It is worth noting that in the future, Aziraphale would have many opportunities to make fun of this particular demonic feature.)

Surely, he should flap his wings and cry “Leave this place, thy foul being, thy monstrous creature” (Aziraphale was a little lost about current human language at the time, and was trying very hard to keep up.)

But he didn't. Something about this demon, about this, er, man, intrigued him. He didn't seem to radiate the cold tendrils of evil, the hot pricks of desire and temptation, the head tossing demonic arrogance that he had heard so much about. He seemed, well, for lack of a better word, like a conflicted source. 

Later, in the year 1980, Aziraphale would go to a drive in movie when he took a vaguely dreadful visit to the currently non existent United States of America, where he learned the perfect comparison to how the demon felt at that very moment. He was like the average high school student who hung with the bad kids just to belong somewhere- you know, the kind that smoked behind buildings or whatnot. He was that kid who tagged along, who declared himself one of them, but never quite belonged. An outsider in a group of outsiders. 

In 1980, Crowley became very happy with that comparison. However, that revelation came 6000 years too late for it to be any help. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale chuckled, stuck in that anxious space where you have a decision to make. 

“I said, well that went down like a lead balloon.” 

“Oh. Yes, yes, it did rather.” Aziraphale agreed, choosing not to unleash the modern humanized english in the most angelic manner possible, though what the demon had said was most decidedly unangelic. 

“Bit of an overreaction if you ask me, first offense and everything.” The demon announced, watching Aziraphale’s face. 

He paused, thinking, his red curls blowing into his face as the storm grew in strength, getting ready to slam into the desert. “I can’t see what’s so bad about seeing the difference between good and evil anyway.” 

Aziraphale stuttered. “Well it must be bad.” He was almost afraid for a moment. It even occurred to him that this was demonic temptation- there was no way a demon could be saying outright was Aziraphale had barely dared to even think. He realized he’d been referring to him as “the demon” for quite something. 

“Crawley,” the demon, Crawley, said, sensing his question. 

“Crawley,” Aziraphale said, almost smiling, “otherwise, you wouldn't have tempted them into it.” 

Crawley looked out to the desert. “Aw, they just said get up there and make some trouble.”

“Well, obviously you're a demon.” Aziraphale said, stating the conclusion he had come to despite whatever muddling he felt in his demonic aura. “It’s what you do.”

“Not very subtle of the almighty, though,” Crawley continued, “Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a don't touch sign.” He made some noise- a noise no angel would make. One of doubtful thought. “Why not put it on the top of a high mountain. Or on the moon. Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”

Aziraphale was shocked. He understood now, what people meant when they said demons had fallen. This behavior, this doubt, was utterly unangelic. “Best not to speculate.” He said stiffly. “It’s all part of the great plan. It’s not for us to understand.” 

He smiled smugly. “It’s ineffable.”

Crawley scoffed. “The Great Plan is ineffable?” 

Aziraphale’s smile grew. “Exactly.” His practice of humanized english was paying off. “It is beyond understanding, and incapable of being put into words.” As he spoke, he realized the demon wasn't paying attention to his grand argument anymore. He was squinting at the angel. 

“Didnt you have a flaming sword?” 

“Uh,”

“You did, it was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”

Aziraphale’s previous smugness regarding God’s ineffability vanished. In fact, he had gone a little red. In the three days since the existence of the Earth, this was a first. 

“I-, Uh- I.” He stuttered for a moment or two. 

“Lost it already have you?” The demon asked smoothly.

“Gave it away.” He mumbled. 

“You what?”

Aziraphale didn't want to admit that the demon was the first person he told. He certainly didn't want to admit that he had even lied to God herself about it. In fact, he’d rather drop the subject, but something about Crawley made him want to speak honestly.

“I gave it away.” He said firmly, loudly. 

The demon looked shocked, yellow pupils widening.

“There are vicious animals!” He began to justify. All of his thoughts from before came tumbling out, the angelic guilt and the anxiety and the trying oh-so-hard to be good. “It’s going to be cold out there, and she’s expecting already, and I said “here you go, flaming sword, don’t thank me, and don’t let the sun go down on you here.””

He paused, the story tumbling out in a rambled heap. Below them, the pair were starting up a sand dune. The woman passed the man the sword for a moment so she could start to hoist her self up a particularly slippery spot. The sand that had once felt luxurious under her feet was swallowing up their progress as they tried to get anywhere but here. 

“I do hope I did the right thing.” Aziraphale finished, almost breathing out that last word.

“Oh, you're an angel, I don't think you can do the wrong thing.” Crawley said.

(It is worth noting, that at this point, sarcasm remained a demonic device, therefore, Aziraphale had not yet studied it in modern humanized language. It was to be introduced within the next 67 years, but it really made an appearance exactly 659 years after Crawley made that particular comment.)

“Oh, oh, thank you, oh thank you.” Aziraphale gushed. “Well, it’s been bothering me,” he said candidly, relief clear upon his face. 

“I’ve been worrying too.” Crawley said. “What if I did the right thing with the whole eat-the-apple business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble by doing the right thing.”

As the pair looked across the desert, a lion started to lurch at the couple. The man ran forward, holding the sword over his head, roaring right back. 

“It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?” Said Crawley. “If I did the good thing and you did the bad one.” He chuckled lightly.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, the acts of violence being done by his god-given heavenly weapon no longer concerning him. He started to laugh nervously too, than stopped strictly. “No!” He said, in the loudest, most angel-like (not quite angelic, as angelic usually implies kindness), tone he had used. “Wouldn't be funny at all!”

Crawley shrugged. 

And then, as the couple huddled together and the lion laid dead, the sky broke open, and the first rain touched the ground. Aziraphale lifted his wing, and Crowley stepped under gratefully, and the two watched God’s wrath rain down. 

It was the first of many meetings, and as the horizon grew more and more obscured, and the thirst desert lapped up as much water as possible, Aziraphale imagined a change, imagined a world he had not yet seen. 

A world of uncertainty, rather than blind trust. A world where a leap of faith leads to falling rather than a miracle. 

It was a world that he had never previously visualized.

He shook his head. It was clear that he had simply been tempted towards the edge of doubt by this damned demon. It was like he said. That was his job after all. It was simply the presence of the demon that had him feeling these things.

After the rain let up, and Crawley left, and a few decades went by in a dull sandy blur, Aziraphale found himself craving that feeling again. Wherever he went, he listened for that voice, felt for that muddled presence. Sometimes he’d feel it in villages or (pagan) temples. Sometimes he’d feel it in vanishing footprints in sand dunes or in the wind. 

But he wanted it, to feel that creeping feeling again of morality and wanting and questions and something new, because even in the third day of creation, meeting Crawley was the most unique, most memorable, most notable moment of Aziraphale’s life in Earth. 

And that, Aziraphale decided, was an emotion worth exploring.


	2. 3004 BC

Crawley had been very busy as of late. The world had been changing very much, very quickly, and world from below was that he was to try and change very much, very quickly as well. Hell believed very strongly in setting roots, in embedding demonic influence deep into the very origins of any society. And as their “Primary Earth Correspondent,” Crawley’s job consisted nearly entirely of scratching demonic runes into buildings that were supposedly very important, buildings that were to define history. 

(It is worth noting that hell was not particularly good at guessing which buildings would leave a mark in history, nor did they predict the human tendency to destroy the old and bring in the new. Only two buildings made it past the death of Christ- one was burned down in 48 BC by a particularly stubborn Roman General, the other still stands today, in a sense. An American architect taking a visit to a recently demolished ancient ruin was particularly captivated by designs seen on a pillar, and etched them into a building known today as the White House. It is also worth noting that when Crawley shared this particular tid-bit of demonic history with Aziraphale, he was not at all surprised.)

During all this etching and evil-doing and traveling (oh in satan’s name, the traveling,) Crawley had gotten quite tired of many things. For one, he disliked the whole Hell-Shall-Send-Its-Mission-Straight-To-Your-Brain thing. He also was getting quite tired of avoiding singing beggars in the street, for Beezlebub had a tendency to shout through their lungs to ensure Crawley was being properly demonic at all times. Finally, he was quite tired of the name Crawley. It seemed undignified, he had decided. Not fitting of a proper demon, you know? Sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine. 

He shook the sand out of his tunic. It was a ridiculous thing to wear, truly just, awkward. Nothing demonic about it at all, he had decided. Sand in your privates may “hurt like the devil”- like humans had taken to saying- but it isn't demonic in the least. He was back in Mesopotamia- this time for something other than glorified vandalism. Hastur had actually been sent to Earth to discuss this one- no more wailing street performers, which made Crawley quite pleased. According to Hastur, the other side was up to something, something that based on Hell’s information simply could not be true. 

Stepping down into the sand, Crawley understood why. He felt a feeling like one that he had only felt after the fleeing of eden. Like the ground, the sky, the earth itself, was radiating some sort of powerful hatred. Crawley would’ve been worried about Armageddon- that the antichrist had risen already and that he just had not been informed- but he knew this feeling. It was God, making the skies crackle and threaten and loom with ominous ineffability. Crawley smiled a little at the phrase. He sensed the awe radiating from the ground under his feet- it was a strange sensation. Somehow, he knew God could wipe him off the planet, destroy his atoms into a molecule not yet in existence, without even a thought, he knew that God’s rage had fallen upon this valley, he knew that he was a pawn on some massive chessboard, and yet he couldn't stop thinking about that angel.

It was stupid, Crawley knew. A pathetic attempt for some form of companionship that wasn't based on a completely separate chessboard of moving pieces and cackling demons with satanic intentions. (It is worth noting that the standard idea of chess has existed since approximately 23 days after the end of Eden. Demons simply chose when to introduce the concept to humanity.)

Nevertheless, the conversation he had with that angel remained of the few real conversations he had ever had. Drunken babbles with equally drunken humans didn't count. Anything said to Hastur, Beezlebub, or satan forbid Dagon, certainly didn't count. 

See, he had been thinking a lot, over these decades of busywork. He’d been pondering his role, wondering exactly how demonic he is, trying to understand his position in hell. Yes, he visited from time to time, but he was an Earth Correspondent. Most of his time was spent on the ground, not under it. And even before all that, Crawley never seemed particularly demonic per say. Sure, he fell. But it’s not like he was right up there with the swords and the flaming swords, leading some rebellion by Lucifer’s side, corrupting the eternal palace in the clouds with angelic blood. 

He’d just hung around the wrong people. 

He sighed as he made it over the side of the valley. It really was a sick kind of beautiful. The valley was filled with a town, around it bustled people, chickens, goats, children hobbling by, clutching their mother’s hands. It was almost fascinating how people had developed. And above it all, perched on a high ledge, was a massive ship. People crowded below it, watching, gawking, and beside them, a long line of animals were filing into the ship, two of each kind. Crawley couldn't help but gawk a little too. It was a deeply strange sight. It was possible that Hastur was on to something. 

He was scouring the crowd, hoping someone might tip a verbal cue, when he felt it, that feeling he had felt in Eden.

Crawley had learned that each angel and demon had their own aura. For the most part, when a demon sensed an angel, he sensed an enemy, and their aura radiated hate for anything demonic. Their auras weren't angelic like some might want you to think- they did not emit a demonic-repelling light that cleansed the air. Their aura’s seemed stiff, stuffy even. Holy. 

That’s why Crawley had been so surprised in Eden when he met his first angel, and he felt nothing of the sort. Hastur had compared meeting an angel to getting lemon in the eye, or rubbing alcohol in a cut.

But when he met Aziraphale, his aura seemed, well, gentle. Angelic not in a holier-than-thou attitude, but in that way that seemed like the kind of angelic he’d eventually read about in religious texts. An almost kind sensation. There was some hesitance there, some of that trademarked holy angelic feeling, but there was something else there too. 

Crawley felt that feeling wash over him like a wave all of a sudden, and he couldn't resist smiling as a head of blond curls appeared near the head of the crowd. He must've just miracled here. With a new incentive, he started to push his way through the crowd. The angel stood right up at the front, and was clearly beginning to struggle a wee bit with the attitude of the crowd, being pushed up against the brown fence herding the crowd away from the boat and animals. Crawley clicked his fingers, and the crowd immediately let up. Several turbaned goat herders who were once leaning on the fence, questioning the insane man who built a boat in a desert (Crawley did understand the confusion), would find themselves about 300 feet back, leaning on a particularly large cattle instead. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.” He greeted, trying to sound nonchalant and cool in that typical Crawley (ugh) demonic fashion. 

“Crawley,” the angel greeted, a little nervously. He seemed flustered, perhaps anxious. Crawley settled on anxious as he tried to read the angels face. 

When Crawley was last in a bar, he had heard a woman giving a man advice about how to tell someone you care about them. 

“Remember a detail from your last meeting,” she had said, “and bring it up. Remind them that you were paying attention.” 

Now Crawley certainly wasn't trying to ensure that Aziraphale knew that he cared for him (because he didn't), nor was he wooing the angel (could you bloody imagine?), but he did want to be polite. It was a common courtesy, right? 

“So. Giving the mortals a flaming sword, how did that work out for you?” Crowley asked smoothly, pretending he hadn't carefully thought over what he would ask. 

Besides, he had liked how flustered the angel had been when discussing it last time- the vague attempt at the whole angelic-holier-than-thou thing, the desperate justification, the slightly red face and clear anxiety- it had been, well, endearing.

“The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again,” said the angel carefully. 

Again, noted Crawley. 

“Probably a good thing.” Crawley said, sort of missing that honest angel that he met that day in Eden. He moved on. Business is business, after all. 

“What’s all this about?” He asked. “Build a big boat and fill it with a traveling zoo?”

The angel looked almost flustered again. Certainly nervous. He looked left, right, then right into Crawley’s eyes. Crawley was almost surprised by his gaze for a moment. Even Dagon tended to avoid looking him straight in the eyes- she said the glowing freaked her out. Crawley didn't judge. He tended to dislike them too. But Aziraphale- an angel- didn't even flinch. 

“From what I hear, God’s a bit tetchy.” He looked past Crawley, at the crowds of people carting water back to the town. “Wiping out the human race. Big Storm.”

Crawley was surprised to feel something other than shock. It was almost a disappointment, this upcoming loss. All this time he spent on this earth, with these beings, was it over already, great war be damned?

“All of them?” He asked, a touch of fear mixed with awe in his voice, the last word dripping with just a touch of regret, something not often heard in the voice of a demon. 

“Just the locals,” Aziraphale answered, and with that, Crawley breathed a silent sigh of relief, “I don’t believe that Almighty is upset with the Chinese. Or the Native Americans. Or the Australians.”

Now that instinctive wave of fear, a wave that could almost be called protective instinct (over humans, could you imagine?), came the shock, and then a feeling Crawley could only describe as demonic righteousness. 

“Yet,” he said, his voice now dripping with snark rather than what could be called regret. This was the moment that he knew that for whatever reason, he fell, and that maybe wasn't such a bad thing, because if the “Almighty,” no, if God, could do something like this, then maybe he could justify his side. Maybe, he with his sinners and evil-doers and hell-bound souls and violent demons, could be right. 

“And God’s not actually going to wipe out all the locals.” Azirapahle continued nervously, his voice edging into what Crawley now calls angelic guilt, “I mean, Noah, up there, his family, and his sons, and their wives, they're all going to be fine.” 

Crawley scoffed just a bit, and he would have erupted into what heaven would surely classify as demonic rage-born propaganda, when he looked at Aziraphale, really looked at him. 

His forehead was all pinched together, his stature hunched over, just a tad, sweating more than any angel should. He hated this as much as Crawley did. He was so busy being angry that he wasn't hearing his desperation to really, truly, believe that this was part of what he so lovingly called “ineffable.”

“But they're drowning everybody else?” he said in disbelief, “Not the kids,” He asked, almost hoping that heaven wouldn't go there, “You can't kill kids.” 

Aziraphale tipped back onto his heels. “Mm-hmm.”

Crawley said what they were both thinking. “That's more what you’d expect my lot to do.”

“Yes, but when it’s done, the Almighty is going to put something up called a “rain bow”, as a promise to not drown everyone again.” Azirapahle said, and Crawley could tell he was really, truly, trying to believe it. 

“How kind.” Crawley said, this time not even hiding the sarcasm. 

This time, Aziraphale picked up on it. (It is also worth noting that since their last meeting, Aziraphale had finally gotten caught up with sarcasm. It only took him 107 years to recognize it, and over 4000 to get used to using it himself.)

“You can’t judge the Almighty, Crawly.” Aziraphale started. “God’s plans are-”

“Are you going to say ineffable?”

The angel paused, his mouth midway to forming the word. “Possibly,” he muttered. 

Crawley had found a distraction during the angel’s moment of awkwardness. 

“Oi, Shem!” He was shouting, “That unicorn’s going to make a run for it!”

And indeed, a unicorn was making a run for it, it’s hooves kicking up dust. “Ah, it’s too late.” He raised his voice again. “It’s too late!” He shouted. “You’ve still got one of them!”

And as the words tumbled from his mouth, the sky broke open again, rain falling from the clouds, God’s will ripping through the air. Her power radiated. Crawley could tell that Aziraphale felt it too. 

He turned to face the angel. “A rain-bow, huh?” He asked. “That’s what's waiting at the end of this? Dead kids, and a rainbow? That’s God’s plan?”

Aziraphale remained silent as the rain splattered against his upturned face. Behind him, the town was stirring, placing pots on top of their houses, declaring the rain a miracle, ending the drought. Some shouted that the curse was over, their gods were blessing them. It disgusted Crawley, down to his core.

“What even is a rain bow, any how? Or is it one word? Rainbow?” He tasted the words on his tongue, hissing ever so slightly. 

“Gabriel says it has all the colors in it. You know, red, orange, blue, purple, green.” The angel said weakly, his voice dying off. 

“Well come on then,” Crawley said, starting to walk off. 

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I don’t want a biblical flood to cost me a day to do paperwork. I am seeking shelter. Maybe a nice, smug, high rock. Shall we?” Crawley tried to sound casual, almost arrogant. His words were carefully chosen to sound carefree, and he felt ridiculous, but his heart pounded as he asked. 

Little did he know, the angel’s heart seemed to be partaking in the same fluttering sensation. 

“Are you lying? Is this a trap?” Aziraphale asked dubiously. 

“Would I lie to you?”

And for the first time, but not the last, Aziraphale straightened his back and said, “You're a demon. It’s what you do.”

“Aziraphale,” Crawley said, a name he enjoyed getting to say out loud, “No false intentions. I promise.” He smiled, and for a moment, the pair locked eyes, a demon and an angel just existing together. 

“Alright then.” Said Aziraphale sheepishly. 

Crawley grinned. “Wonderful,” and he started off, “Besides,” He called, “You know more about this whole flooding-the-entire-Continent business than I do. You know the whole Almighty’s plan or whatnot, I can cast a few extra miracles. We’ll be safer together.” 

And with that, Crawley, still trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, led the way across a desert path that would certainly no longer be in existence within the hour.


	3. House on the Edge of Existence

Aziraphale had miracled a little stone cottage into existence on top of a massive sheer rock face. Crawley had taken care of the interior. He was inside now, snapping his demonic fingers to call the underworld to do his bidding. Actually, Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how that whole demonic-miracles-thing worked. He had always assumed that demon’s sourced their powers from hell, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn't sense that much darkness from Crawley’s magic. He wasn't quite sure, he realized. He really didn't know that much about the logistics of demonhood. It was a gray area. 

Aziraphale stood by the door to the cottage, waiting for whatever magic was happening inside to finish up. He was busying himself with gazing out across what had once been a desert. Now, it was filled with an unimaginable quantity of water, swirling, and Aziraphale could swear that sometimes, between the houses and trees that were swept by, he could see dark patterns and symbols melding with the current. It was still raining, raining like he had never seen before. Rain wasn't a proper term for it, neither was storming. It was something else entirely- raindrops the size of stones collided with the Earth, a constant stream of fierce water melding with what was once Earth. The sky was still dark and gray and in constant movement. The air felt electric, Aziraphale could swear that God’s wrath was everywhere. 

Well, everywhere except the Americas. And Australia. And China. 

He rocked back on his heels. What was he doing here, running away with a demon. This was to be a grand moment for heaven, showing the demons that the Almighty really is, er, for lack of a better word, almighty. 

But rather than fly back up to heaven, he was here, in a vaguely muddy tunic, waiting for a demon to be satisfied with interior decorating. He sighed, and in his mind, was already attempting to justify his actions to Gabriel.

He could say that he was, er, trying to gain information on the enemy? What was that human phrase- something about keeping enemies nearby? That had to be a good argument. Better than what thought really went into this whole sit-out-a-world-destroying-flood with a demon situation. 

“All done, angel!” Called Crawley from inside. 

Aziraphale tried to ignore the feeling of slight guilt deep in his stomach, shook the water from his hair, and turned the face the door.

“Oh come on Aziraphale.” The demon shouted again. “I won’t bite.”

The angel rolled his eyes and pushed open the door to the cottage, trying to remember to be a little more brave, more soldier-of-heaven like, and a reply that surely would've been all proper and angelic was about to leave his lips, when he stopped short, because the cottage, oh the cottage.

It was beautiful, nothing like what you’d expect to come from the hands of a demon. There was a small hall, the wall lined with two coat hooks, and beyond that was a little lounge, small and comfortable, with a strangely shaped padded chair in a deep red (later, humans would refer to this as a sofa,) with rounded armrests and a straight reaching back. Aziraphale immediately could imagine Crawley sitting there. And next to it sat a second padded chair (sofa), deep, rich, brown in color, a seat you could sink into and never leave. The chairs were facing a small fireplace, beside the fireplace were windows fitted into the round wall of the circular cottage. It almost felt like sunshine was streaming through them despite the gloomy weather outside. The walls were made of the same stone that formed the cottage in bricks, but here it was smoothed, not to look equal, but almost in a soft, gentle manner. On the next wall, behind the seats, was a pile of books, something humans had recently taken to creating, and behind that, tucked in the corner, was a little kitchen, a simple modern (for Mesopotamia, that is), clay stove, and 3 woven baskets of ingredients. There was a little window there too, and a group of potted plants crowded the windowsill, soaking up light. 

“So?” 

Aziraphale had almost completely forgotten about his demonic companion. He turned to face Crawley, who was leaning against the wall by the coat hooks, running a hand through his long deep red hair anxiously. Aziraphale reminded himself that demons don't get anxious- and Crawley certainly had no reason to be. 

“Do you like it?” The demon asked, and it was such a undemonic question that it almost surprised Aziraphale for a moment, before he remembered that feeling in Eden- that aura of, well, muddled evilness, an aura that smelled not of the grime and dirt of the underworld, but the soil of Earth. 

“It’s quite nice, yes.” Aziraphale said, almost stuttering. 

“Good.” The demon said, moving his glowing eyes from Aziraphale’s face, standing up from his position on the wall, moving quickly from the moment of tenderness. “I reckon we’ll be stuck here a while.”

Aziraphale nodded, tried not to think about it all. (He got you books- how did he know? You never mentioned that you’ve started collecting. It’s probably a demonic trick. Perhaps he’s been watching you. He’s trying to fool you, and then, at the last second, BOOM! Betrayed. Holy fire or backstabbery or the whole deal. Remember, Aziraphale, he is a demon. Demons lie. It is what they do.)

But it was hard to focus on all that, though, when he watched the demon sit in his chair in a completely incorrect manner, placing his knees on one armrest so his feet were off the chair entirely, practically laying across the armrests. It was ridiculous. Aziraphale considered that Crawley had perhaps just never learned how to sit in a chair- he doubted it came up in, er, demon school, but at the same time, it seemed like such a Crawley thing to do.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, moving his gaze from the demon who was not quite in his chair, to the windows, where the storm raged. In the distance, other mountain tops were just visible above the flood water. He almost hoped that there were people up there. Anyone else, you know?

He sat down into his seat, in the proper way. “I suppose we will be.” He reached for a book. He ran his finger over the spine. “Hammurabi’s code?” He asked aloud. 

Crawley leaned back in his chair, facing Aziraphale upside down. “It was traditionally written in stone. I was intrigued by human morals- I got it in paper. Thought it was worth keeping you know, with the great flood and all.” Aziraphale watched his face, trying not to smile. The demon looked ridiculous, upside down, with his long curled hair nearly touching the floor, eye eyes gleaming. 

“That was-” Aziraphale paused, ignoring that warm feeling in his chest. “Very considerate of you, Crawley.”

Crawley’s eyes flashed, and he spun off his chair, to sitting straight up. “I am not considerate.” He said. “In fact,” He walked over to Aziraphale. “This book of human morals if full of violence, angel. Eye for an eye. These morals are cruel. Demonic, even.” He narrowed his eyes. “Saving it documents human evil. It is not considerate. I am a demon. There is nothing considerate about me.” His voice was harsh, harsher then Aziraphale had ever heard. It was the closest to demonic Crawley had ever been. 

He stalked off to the kitchen dramatically. 

Aziraphale remained in his chair, a little shocked. He put down Hammurabi’s code. 

And now, he understood Crawley’s muddled aura. He understood- because Crawley wasn't all good and light and “you can't kill kids,” he was dark too, demonic, in a way, doubtful of the Almighty, he was appalled by the idea of being anything but. 

And it made sense. 

Because, Aziraphale had realized, Crawley, above all, is himself. 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said. 

He looked over his shoulder at the demon in the kitchen. He scowled a little and placed a hand on the clay oven. A glow inside showed Aziraphale that the demon had lit it with his bare hands. The flame died down as Crawley sighed.

“It’s alright.” Crawley said. “It’s just.” He turned to face the angel. “A demon can get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing. It’s like you said,” he leaned against the wooden table, “I do wonder if a demon even can do the right thing.” 

Aziraphale looked at him and pierced his lips. He wasn't expected the demon to be so emotional, so honest. 

And so, Aziraphale closed his eyes, breathing in the demon’s aura, the demon’s honesty, the sensation of his presence. 

“Maybe it’s not as much of a black and white world as they say.” Aziraphale said, voicing the doubts he’d been having since Eden, “Maybe, there's more to it than just demons and angels and good and evil.” 

Crawley smiled. “Yeah. Maybe.”

 

And for that moment, Aziraphale wasn't thinking about doubt or the lies of demons, or any of that. He was just there, in that moment, in a cottage during the end of this part of the world, and everything was okay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I am not Christian. I am not religious at all, in fact. I am pretty sure that shows through in this chapter. I tried to fact check this- according to John:32 (?), Jesus did perform and support Baptisms (thanks google!). I hope that this chapter doesn't offend anyone. I've decided not to address the matter regarding whether or not he is God's son or any of that. Anyways, enjoy!

It had been a few weeks since Aziraphale and Crawley had abandoned their home in the cottage, a few weeks since the flood water had sunk back to the Earth and the rain had stopped, a few weeks since Crawley had last seen the angel. But somehow, Aziraphale seemed to be in his thoughts every minute of every day. 

It was exhausting. 

After the water had gone, Crawley was surprised that he almost didn't want to leave the cottage. It was just the cottage, after all, he decided. It was the cottage he would miss, the time to relax, the sleepy days criticizing human morality, the more domestic bits of being a demon. It was that he would miss, certainly not the company. Being cooped up with an angel for two weeks was decidedly a downside. 

He wouldn't miss the constant cooking, or the strange flavored water Aziraphale insisted on drinking every evening (“it’s something the Chinese have been making!” He had said with a big enthusiastic smile, his eyes crinkling up in that distinctive way. “Perhaps that's why the Almighty isn't washing them away,” Crawley said in response), and he certainly wouldn't miss his attitude. The constant niceness was exhausting. Made Crawley feel all creepy-crawly, a feeling that demons are supposed to create, not reciprocate. 

Either way, Crawley would miss vacationing. Not the angel. 

Once the floodwaters had died down and the leaks in hell had been patched up (underground chambers of torment seemed to be very receptive to the crushing pressure of millions of tons of god-sent water) and it was business as usual, missions from hell and the like. Hastur had decided that the flood was a sign that hell had done a proper good job of corrupting humanity, such a good job that it was time to go and redo everything Crawley had done that had gotten washed away. Unfortunately, this mostly included leaving demonic sigils everywhere. Hastur had wished for “one to be placed in every human community.” Crawley didn't have the heart to tell him that there were far to many human “communities,” and too many constantly moving ones, for this to be a realistic goal. 

Instead, Hastur suggested that he spend a few months covering particular sections of land (or, countries, as humans would soon come to call them.) 

It was almost the turn of the century. Crawley could feel it. The Almighty had predicted that at some point, a Poor Sod would be born, and because of his death, humans would totally change how the counted years, and time itself would start over entirely. The Almighty’s roll in all of Western Society, and the world, would change. Heaven thought it was a big win. Hell was concerned. 

It was a stupid idea, Crawley had decided. Pretending like all those years before hadn't mattered. If he was to be really demonic, he could even swear about it. 

Crawley looked around him. For the last two weeks, he’d been systematically sigiling the ever-growing Roman empire. It was utterly exhausting. Even more exhausting was the fact that he still had approximately 8 more months of sigiling to do, and that was only if the Empire only expanded by 50 miles in that time. Knowing the Romans, that wasn't particularly likely. 

He was currently sitting at the foot of a temple, that according to locals, was supposed to be “quite grand.” He rather liked the pillars, the smooth marble of the steps, the simple colossal-ness of the building. It was a strange building, it’s cool white-stone nature reminding him of heaven, the empty echoing feel only adding to that effect. But there was something else, maybe the darkness and the feeling of a power beyond the God Crawley knew, that seemed almost hellish. He smirked. One day, he decided, one day, he would live someplace like this. A place dedicated to the past that clashed themes, and felt like him. Felt like a fallen angel rather than a demon. 

He stood up from his place on the steps, adjusting his tunic. He ran a finger through his tangled hair. He usually liked at least trying to keep it neat. He even wore it in a ponytail at times, but now it felt rather well, off. Not quite him. There was a lot of things about him that felt just a little, well, off. Like that name. Crawley. 

He tried not to think of the time he’d pinned his hair up in the cottage and Aziraphale had practically spit out his tea. 

He sat down again, knowing that once he started thinking about Aziraphale, well, it tended to last a while. 

It wasn't fondness, he justified to himself. Because he wasn't fond of the angel. That’d be ridiculous. He was a demon, after all. 

Once he’d spent enough time on a tangent like this, he felt emotionally justified enough, and allowed himself some time to think about the angel. 

Being in the cottage felt so, well, domestic, was the only term that could be applied there. It was cozy and sweet and filled with a sort of gentle routine. After a few days, Crawley had realized that he quite enjoyed the human practice of sleeping, usually in his little chair. He never dreamed, of course. Dreams were a human thing, one that he’d never quite fully grasp nor understand. When he slept, it was like a familiar darkness embracing him like an old friend, a darkness where he just existed without thought for a while. He’d usually sleep the night through (Aziraphale would too sometimes, but usually he’d spend them reading with a little candle, or by the fireplace with a quilt Crawley miracled to existence). Sometime around sunrise, Crawley would get up, and Aziraphale would make them tea. Sometimes they’d talk, other times they’d just sit in silence. After some days, the rain stopped, and one morning, it was there. The rainbow.

Crawley and Aziraphale stepped outside, feeling the sunshine on their skin for the first time in what felt like ages. It was brilliantly poised, the most beautifully perfect rainbow ever seen, arched across the sky, saturated colors each as bright as the world had ever seen them. Red as deep as the apple Crawley had whispered to Eve about, an orange yellow that Aziraphale said was like Crawley’s eyes, a green the color of a citrus fruit the angel had not yet discovered, a gentle sea-blue that melded together with a violet that could only be compared to wildflowers. It was glorious, those colors suspended in the sky, a sight new to Earth.

Aziraphale had been certain the rainbow was proof of the Almighty’s, er, almightiness. Her power, validation of his faith. 

 

Crawley saw it differently. This rainbow, this symbol of God, well, it was a symbol that intrigued one of Crawley’s very few demonic gut reactions. This symbol of god’s love for humanity or whatnot, all he wanted to do was to corrupt it, to make it stand for something typically unangelic or unheavenly or anything. This was a symbol that he wanted to alter. To change. Something so beautiful couldnt stand for a heartless power who drowned her chess pieces when she felt like it. 

That rainbow, well, it wanted Crawley want to be more demonic. Plain and simple. 

(It is worth noting that in 1978, Crawley achieved this goal by whispering in the ear of one Gilbert Baker, who, at Crawley’s request, had gotten a call from a local politician, Harvey Milk, earlier in the week. Within a month, the rainbow was an icon for something new.) 

Other than some brief upsets (you know, moments where conversations got too deep, or Aziraphale nearly called Crawley a certain four letter word, the kind that demons don’t approve of,) life in the cottage had been, well, pleasant. 

Suddenly Crawley sat straight up as his thoughts were replaced by knowledge, knowledge in Hastur’s voice. 

THE TURN OF THE CENTURY IS UPON US. POOR SOD IS BELIEVED TO BE IN SALEM. FIND POOR SOD, REPORT BACK WHEN THE HUMANS HAVE KILLED HIM. GET HIM FOR US, FOR OUR LORD. BE QUICK.

Crawley sat back again. He hated when they did that, when there were no singers or harpists around to manipulate. He hated that feeling, of being controlled, like there was a leash connected to him or something. 

It was a gross feeling.

He ran his tongue around his teeth and cleared his throat to try and flush it out. Now, he stood up. Apparently, he had places to be, and a Poor Sod to find. 

The Poor Sod, it turned out, was a shepherd, living just outside of modern day Jerusalem (Salem, at the time), by the name of Jesus. 

He seemed very ordinary, Crawley thought, for a man destined to change history. He cocked his head as he watched him. He was tall, had a beard and hair ordinary for the time, clad in a peasants robes. But as soon as Crawley was within earshot of him, he could see what made him different. It was the way he spoke to people, like he was drawing them in. He kind of reminded him of Lucifer from the early days of the rebellion, but rather than charm through shared spite and frustrations, he was speaking of morality, simple kindnesses. 

He was speaking in some sort of pub. Crawley took a seat in the back, ordered a wine. 

Wine, Crawley had decided, was either very good or very bad. It was one of those few things that was very black and white to the demon. Usually, he preferred red, partially for the bitter-sweet taste, but also for the aesthetic, because let’s get real, a yellow-eyed, black tunic-clad demon with flaming red hair is far more suited to drinking red wine from a chalice then whatever bullshit they were brewing from barley now a days. 

That was another thing Crawley had taken too recently- covering those yellow eyes whilst in public. Usually, he’d cast a minor disillusion miracle, and humans wouldn't even notice, but constantly hiding that part of him was gnawing at him. It’d be far easier just to slightly cloak them- like telling a white lie- than to constantly be responsible for holding a miracle about, as if he was lying to everyone right there on the street. Recently, he’d run into a traveling businessman with a strange trade- something he’d been calling eyepieces. Crawley immediately requested a specially made piece with darkened lenses. They looked a little ridiculous, but he loved them anyways. At the moment, they were tucked away in pocket in this blasted tunic. For tonight, minor miracles would have to do.

He’d been editing the tunic as of late as well. He’d stitched up part of the sleeve with red. Honestly, he’d been changing a lot recently. Something just felt off, nearly constantly. It was like he was thinking at the temple. He tugged his fingers back through his hair. He could start there, he thought absentmindedly, changing up that. His physical appearance might help to steer him through this whole identity funk. 

“Sir?” A voice asked. Crawley jerked out of his thoughts quickly, realizing he’d completely forgotten about Poor Sod, sorry, Jesus who he was supposed to be watching. “Are you all right?”

He looked up from the table he’d been staring down, apparently, and right there, was the Poor Sod, speaking to him. The rest of the pub had cleared out. 

“Oh yes,” Crawley said, standing up quickly, “Excellent.” He brushed some nonexistant crumbs off the idiotic tunic. 

“You sure? Everyone comes here for a reason.” The man began. “I’m quite used to people being, er, embarrassed. For wanting help.” 

Crawley resisted the urge to scoff. Here for a reason? He was here because some demon who he works for had sent him here via a mental message to try and get him to corrupt this man’s soul before he was to be murdered, which, by the way, was in under three days by this point. The demon was half tempted to launch into this speech, because why not? He was a little drunk, after all. It’s not like he could really corrupt the soul of a man who was just preaching about love and kindness and all that. 

Corrupting was really Ligur’s specialty. He had a way about it. 

“I’m here,” Crawley said, “Because I’ve got nowhere else I can be.” He said, as if that meant he was desperate, not that he had a demonic voice in his head telling him where to be or else. 

“Ah,” the Poor Sod Jesus said as if he understood. “You know, just looking at you, I sense so much conflict.” He looked Crawley straight in the eyes. “There's something hidden away about you. I sense more than one thing, in fact. You have a very guarded personality.”

Crawley scoffed. “Oh yeah, that’s me. Guarding my gentle soul left and right.”

The man smiled. “You prove my point.” He cocked his head to the side, watching Crawley’s face. “Now,” He paused, like Aziraphale had all those years ago in Eden, silently asking his name. 

“Crawley,” the demon answered honestly, surprising himself. 

“Now, Crawley,” the man said, sitting on a stool beside him, “What is bothering you? Really.”

Crawley took a breath. Hell had just asked for Crawley to corrupt the man, right? Would aiding a demon corrupt him enough to send him to hell? 

“I don’t know who I am,” he confessed, the words spilling out before he really had a plan, because it felt so good to be listened to, so good to have someone look into his (false) eyes and give him actual advice, to have someone care at least a little.

“I feel like I’m always keeping part of me hidden. I feel like I don’t fit here,” He said, all of it spilling out far to quickly, “And I don’t know how to fix that. It shouldn't even be a problem, but I feel this thing weighing on me all day, and I don't even know what it is.”

The Poor Sod looked at him carefully, examining his face. “You feel separated from who you are and who you believed you should be.” He said carefully. “I hate to be a religion pusher here, but if you truly feel so uncomfortable with who you feel you should be, get baptized.” 

Crawley scoffed, resisting the urge to cackle. Could you imagine- holy water on all sides, feet burning, a preacher thanking the almighty? If Crawley didn't know better, he’d call it his personal hell. 

“Now, I know what you're gonna say. And allow me to correct myself. You don't need to physically get baptized. But change something, something that’s weighing you down, like your name, and baptize yourself, allow yourself to change into a new version of you, one you feel more satisfied with.”

Crawley perked up. That wasn't half bad advice. “You can do that?” He asked. “Just. Change your name?” 

The Poor Sod shrugged. “Why not?” 

Crawley started to grin. He did want a change. Nothing dramatic, but a name that was more him. He whispered it on his tongue inaudibly, tasting it, savoring in. 

“Crowley.” He said aloud. 

The man smiled. “I like it.”

Crowley smiled. “So do I.”

He sobered up as the man watched, the glass refilling with wine. Jesus’s mouth dropped in shock. Crowley shrugged. “Parlour Trick,” he said in explanation, feeling the magic rolling through him. The bartender watched from the corner. “Let me show you something,” he said to Jesus, motioning towards the door. As they walked, he motioned at Jesus’s back, mouthing “Did you see that?” to the bartender, who now seemed to be seeing the Poor Sod not as an inspirational speaker, but as a deity. 

He stepped out of the bar into the cold night air and grasped the man’s arm. They were surrounded by cobble and a few canisters filled with flame to light the empty street. He closed his eyes. 

He felt the feeling of a minor miracle run through his fingers, and suddenly, it was warm, warm and humid. He opened his eyes. 

They, he and Jesus, were standing on a mountain. Stretched out below them, tucked in a forest, was a growing town. No, city. 

“They’re called the Mayans,” The demon whispered, his red hair whipping in the gentle wind. “Most powerful kingdom in Central America.”

He felt another miracle shudder through his body again. This time, they were in China, watching Han China sleep. Another, and they stood in the middle of a Bantu trade camp Next, North India, where Bhuddist scrolls were being prepared to send to Chinese traders, then the Parthians, and then back to Rome. They landed right back in front of the bar.

The man stumbled back, shock on his face. 

“What are you?” he asked, in something mixed with both horror and awe. 

“What I am matters not,” Crowley said carefully. “But what matters is that you know of the worlds beyond yours. You are a bright kid,” he said, beginning to smile, “And there is so much you do not know. But there's somehow so much that you understand that even kings fail to grasp.” 

He smiled at the man. “Keep that up.”

And then he vanished, leaving the Poor Sod alone in the road, mind spinning. 

Crowley miracled himself back to the base of a pillar at the temple. 

He smiled. 

He knew he’d never tell a soul about why he took that man to all those places, why he used up so many miracles all at once. 

In all honesty, he was grateful. Whatever human morals he preached be damned, he had given Crowley an idea. He’d given him a tool to unlocking this bloody problem. 

He sighed. And he was to die in less than three days now. 

It was a pity, he decided. Letting such a bright soul leave the Earth.

But he had a feeling that his legacy would be the type that was far extended when he was dead. The type that’s legacy is truly secured years after they die.

The type that changes worlds. 

Crowley smiled, and performed one last miracle for the night, summoning an apple, dark red and crisp.

He still wasn't nice. He decided, even after what he tried to do for that kid.

Besides, only a demon would stand by and still let him die.

No matter what feelings it caused in his gut.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, I apologize, but I hope you'll enjoy. This chapter digs a little more into Aziraphale's issues with heaven, but we'll see his personality grow more in the future. I wanna finish this whole fic before school starts up in August- it might take a miracle.

Aziraphale stood in the dessert, his newest tunic fluttering in the wind, a turban snug on his head. It was an awful day. Gabriel had shot down for a quick message, saying that the human’s messiah was to die today, and that he had to be there. 

Aziraphale hated it when he was sent to witness deaths. It was gruesome and frankly, he didn't see what was so angelic about standing by whole some poor person is stabbed or gutted or, in this case, strung up in a cross with nails through him. It made him feel in ways that Urie; had firmly set as unangelic. Feeling guilt about the state of humans isn't an angels job. He is a warrior of God, not a gentle creature for humans to cry to. 

He hated that. That matter-of-fact attitude that was wearing off on him from his superiors. 

He watched as the man was dragged to the cross, which was currently being partially propped up by a portley Roman legionare. 

He sighed. He hated this feeling, this helplessness, this inability to make a change. 

The first stake was driven into the mans wrist. He cried out in pain. Azirapahle flinched. 

No, not inability, because if he really, truly wanted to, he could miracle the man right out of the soldier’s arms. It was that fact that really hurt. 

He’d been ordered to be a bystander, so a bystander he would be. 

He was so distracted by this guilt, this feeling hanging heavy in his stomach, that he didn't even sense Crawley’s aura before he spoke. 

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” 

Azirapahle whirled to face the demon. He answered honestly, his voice soft. “Smirk? Me?”

“Well, your lot put him on though.” The demon said. Aziraphale could hear something in his voice there, something that felt almost accusatory. 

“I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley.” Aziraphale said, his voice defensive. He could hear that tone, something that seemed a little like desperation. He hated the fact that it was there. He didn't have to justify himself to a demon, right? More than that, he didn't have to justify heaven to a demon. 

Heaven knows what's best, and wants what's best for the world. Heaven believes in the great plan, and Crawley and hell, well, not so much. 

“Oh, I’ve changed it.” The demon said quickly.

“Changed what?” The angel asked, confused. 

In the background, the man on the cross groaned with pain. The pair tried to ignore it.

“My name. Crawley was not really doing it for me. It’s a bit too,” The demon made a scrunched up face, his discomfort clear. “Squirming effeatish.” 

“You were a snake.” The angel stated. “So what is it now? Ephistopheles? Asmodeus?” Aziraphale began to list all the typical demonic names he could think of. He was determined to find out that there wasn't anything different about this demon after all, that he was an ordinary agent of hell, evil to his core, and that heaven was right after all. Because if Crawley (or, not Crawley) was a demon after all, than maybe Aziraphale was truly an angel too. 

“Crowley.” 

“Mmm.” The angel said in response. In that moment, he remembered why he was so drawn to the demon, why Crowley, was so different, so unique. He remembered back to Eden, when he first felt that presence washing over him, and rather than feel appalled, he felt curious. He remembered those black wings- those crow black wings- that mirrored his own, and felt like some sort of reinstatement of their similarities. 

That feeling of wanting Crowley to be wrong so Aziraphale could be right, washed away almost instantly. 

Crawley was a loyal demons name. But Crowley- that was a name that belonged to nobody but Crowley and Crowley alone. 

There was a pause. The angel turned his attention back to the horrific scene before him, the man with the crown of thorns and nails. 

“Did you, uh, ever meet him? He asked, almost certain he already knew the answer. 

“Yes,” the demon drawled “seemed a very bright young man.” His voice dropped from his usual confident tone to something a little softer. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.” The demon turned his glowing eyes to face the angel.

“Why?” Aziraphale asked.

“He’s a carpenter from Galilee, his traveling opportunities are limited.” Crowley said, his voice regaining it’s ordinary confidence.

Another nail was driven into the man’s wrists.

“Oohh, that’s got to hurt.” The demon said, wincing. 

The angel watched in horror. He hated that this, this and the great flood and dozens of other things, were heaven’s doing. He has always wanted to do the right thing, doing the right thing was ever so important.

But was this violence, was this the right thing?

“What was it he said that's got everyone so upset?” Crawley Crowley asked, turning to look at the angel. 

“Be kind to each other.” 

“Oh yeah, that’ll do it.” Crowley said resignedly, turning back to the graphic scene. 

Aziraphale turned to look at him. His red hair was partially covered by a black headscarf. If Aziraphale didn't know any better, he’d swear it was mourning wear. 

The man cried out in pain as the cross was lifted up to full height by the Romans.

Crowley looked away. “Well, that’s a report done. I’m off, angel. Demons to inform and all that.” He smirked a little at the angel, as if he knew that this last sentence would hurt. “I’m sure you have to do the same. Tell them their murder was a smashing sucsess.” And with that, he vanished in a poof of black smoke, leaving the angel standing there. 

Aziraphale stood in the dust as the smoke melded with the sand, alone among a crowd of people, some sobbing, some shock-struck. Aziraphale could relate. 

He knew that Crowley had meant to hurt him with that last statement. 

It's what demons do. Hurt people. No matter how vaguely undemonic Crowley was, he still fell. He was still an operative of hell. 

But the worst part, Aziraphale knew, was that he was right. He did have to now go and inform Gabriel of the success of his plan. He’d maybe even get a commendation for it, can you imagine?

Crowley might try and take the high road, but that’s just like demons, to try and make angels feel guilty, to prompt these emotions. 

He sighed. 

Because as much as Aziraphale hated to admit it, he knew Crowley wasn't responsible for giving him doubt, a word he never intended to utter out loud, because he’d been feeling this doubt for decades, since before Eden.

He’d been feeling this guilt, this questioning.

He’d never met this man, this carpenter from Galilee, this poor shepard, who somehow made an impact. But he heard him speak once, speaking about angelic duty and how God sends angels to care for people, how God cares for each and every human and how heavens duty is to guide them. 

He’d heard about humans throwing up when they felt ill.

Listening that day, he’d never felt like participating in that very human activity more. 

He sighed.

And then he recalled upon the one thing keeping him moving forward, reminding him that he can’t be that bad.

The Great Plan. 

It was like a human saying that Gabriel had grown very fond of recently- to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.

To being about the great plan, to ensure peace and tranquility and the victory of heaven, everything he’d been told since the first moment of his creation, he had to allow some humans to pay the price. 

It would be alright, he decided.

God had to be. 

He sighed, and scrunched his eyes closed as he popped into heaven. 

He appeared in the normal white room.

It is worth noting that this room changes both very, very much and very, very little throughout history. At this point in time, it’s a marble room with high ceilings, and light streaming in from unknown window-like things. After a push to modernize in the 1970’s, this was replaced with a white room of approximately the same size, that somehow felt like an office if you simply took out all the cubicles. The windows till streamed in an unreasonable quantity of light when you consider their size and the orientation of the sun, but that never bothered anyone. 

However, one thing remained unchanged for all of history, and this was the aura of heaven. We’ve discussed the aura of angels and demons (Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s in particular), but Heaven and Hell have very unique auras. Heaven, like Crowley recalled, has a cold feel that prompts authority. It constantly smells like a mixture of glaciers (you know that smell, crisp, fresh, cold, and just a tad bit dangerous) and old lemon cough drops. But most of all, there's this sense of authority, of cleanliness.

Hell is about the opposite. In over 6000 years of existence, they never modernized. Sure, they had to expand as more and more souls were condemned to fill their walls, but they never changed the basic idea of the place. The basic idea of the place consisted of this: damp cobblestone, minimal lighting (that did change, from dim lamps to dim cheap fluorescent lights), the feeling of steel, mold, and the smell of torture and mildew. 

Aziraphale had never been to hell, but he knew he didn't quite like heaven either. He hated to admit it, but he almost felt like an outsider here. 

It felt too stiff, too harsh, almost. 

He opened his eyes as the marble room appeared around him. It was empty.

“Ah, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale spun around. Gabriel had materialized in his usual overly dramatic fashion, his light gay shimmering tunic unwrinkled, every hair on his head where it was supposed to be.

“I trust you come to me with good news?”

“Ah, yes. News. The Soldiers strung up the man-”

“The Poor Sod?”

“Yes. By your orders. Everything went to plan.”

“No demonic interference? I’ve heard that Crawley can be quite, er, interfering.”

Aziraphale bit his tongue to stop himself from correcting the angel.

“No interference.” Aziraphale said, the white lie burning on his tongue. 

“Good. I’ll speak with Uriel. You might be up for a commendation for this.” Gabriel smiled, crinkling his purple eyes, and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder in what was supposed to be a congratulatory manner. 

Aziraphale squeaked awkwardly. “A commendation?” 

Gabriel laughed. “Ah, yes, Aziraphale. Always humble. I’ll see you soon.”

He slapped Aziraphale on the shoulder again, and dematerialized. 

Aziraphale stood in the empty room for a second more, and willed himself to be anywhere but here.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a two chapter night y'all! This is what happens when I'm over caffeinated.
> 
> Anyways, please feel free to comment (any feedback is appreciated,) and I hope you enjoy!

Crowley had been keeping himself busy.

Very busy, in fact. 

Since meeting The Poor Sod, he’d been thinking more about himself, and more about reinvention. 

He’d always felt like an outsider, even among demons. He knew he was too familiar among humans, too, well, conflicted, as Aziraphale had said, to really be a superstar downstairs.

But who ever said he couldn't do this whole demonic thing his way?

Besides, with the whole bloody great plan and all, he’d be fine. He could add his own little touch to daily misdeeds, plot Earthly tortures that would result in only the most minimal of violence, create discomfort and breed annoyance. It would be fun, he had decided, starting his new life as Crowley.

The first thing he did was cut off his hair. All of it. 

He did it himself too- he hated the idea of someone being that close to his head with a knife. He knew that he could just miracle himself a new look, but he wanted to do this on his own. It felt more personal. He bought a small silver dagger from a stand in Alexandria, and just started chopping. It was a little lopsided at first, but a little magic evened it out. It was short cropped in the back, almost smooth on the curve of his neck, but it grew longer up top. He loved to play with it- see all the iterations of himself that he could be. He curled it with oil, mused it up as if he’d just taken a nap (another thing Crowley did rather enjoy), or slicked it back. (This style would grow rather popular during 3 iterations in history- in West Europe during Viking Invasions, during the 1960s across America, and during the 20’s in London and New York. Crowley had this haircut during exactly none of those times.)

Crowley also finally invested in a proper pair of eye shades. The first pair were small, almost dainty, barely covering his eyes, threatening to reveal his demonic physicality to any passerby. It was almost intimidating.

But for the first time, Crowley felt like he was his own person. He wasn't just a minion of hell. He had things in his control- his name, his appearance, even his attitude towards orders. 

It was a new era for the demon, and Crowley was dedicated to making sure it would be a good one. 

He barely noticed as years began to go by. Time worked differently on demons, anyhow. It was rumored that Ligur once sat down to decide a lad’s punishment, and by the time he stood up again for sentencing, an entire year had gone by. 

Crowley’s assignment in Rome had been extended. The bosses downstairs had a firm belief that Rome was going to succeed in dominating the total of Europe, and would eventually conquer Africa. 

Personally, Crowley’s money was on a tribe on some Island near Belgium. They, for no explicable reason, showed some promise. Something about them- maybe their defeat of the Roman army- suggested a future of world domination and war-fighting.

All that aside, years had gone by, and still he sat, corrupting roman officials, loosening wheels on chariots so that they’d still work but they’d be haunted by a godawful squeak, and enjoying the ever-developing human invention of wine. 

It was a simple life, one Crowley was rather pleased to be leading.

He’d gotten a small commendation last week for the assassination of some Roman Emperor. Truthfully, he’d had nothing to do with it. Maybe vengeance was in town. Nevertheless, hell was happier with him than ever, he was happier than ever, everything was, well, pretty good, right?

So why did he feel like there was something… missing?

Because as these years of slightly demonic fun drifted by, as he orchestrated what he liked to call “mass irritations,” somehow, there was a little clock inside him. Each day, each week, each month, each year started to become known as “time since he’d last seen Aziraphale.” 

Before he’d gone decades without the angel, and it was fine. Everything was fine. But now, it’d been eight years, and Crowley felt rather, well, alone, which was a feeling generally discouraged by Hell. 

It was this loneliness that prompted Crowley to bars in the evening- not to pick up women (or men) as he saw many humans do, but to simply be in a place where he wouldn't be alone. Besides, it was easily justifiable. Bars are where the scourge of the earth sit night after night until they can’t afford it. Arguably, Crowley wasn't at the bar because he enjoyed it, no, he was at the bar to ensure that these scoundrels remained on a hell bound path. 

It was on one of these nights that Crowley had been having some particular fun with his hair- a silver wreath wrapped around circular curls set in oil- with his new shaded glasses- when he, for a moment, stopped feeling lonely at all.

He was in Rome, one of the last stops in his time in the ever shrinking Roman Empire when he slouched down at the bar.“What have you got?” It was his usual order, he tended to trust human bartenders above practically any demon, “Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable,” He finished lazily. The bartender nodded, hurrying off. He smiled a little. See? Demons would make some big fuss or slip blood in your wine, or, Satan forbid, try and make small talk. Small talk was certainly the most hellish of all demonic inventions. But humans? They understood, which was vaguely depressing. The bartender slid a jug to him. “Jug of hassbrown. Two sistercius.” Crowley slid the coins across the table. 

“Crawley- Crowley?” Asked a warm voice behind him. 

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale. Some part of him whispered speak of the devil and that other part, just as quick, whispered back you're the devil in this case and that last part stage whispered at them both to shut the hell up. 

“Fancy running into you here,” The angel said, smiling, and pulling up a stool. “Still a demon then?” He asked conversationally. 

Crowley rolled his eyes (a visual reaction to sarcasm he planned to release upon humanity without mercy) and that snarky, confident demonic side he’d been building up replied instantly. “What kind of stupid question is that, still a demon, what else am I going to be? An aardvark?” He scoffed and looked at his drink. It was too large to drink dramatically. That was another thing the world needed in time. Small quantities of very potent alcohol that were both efficient and perfect for dramatics. He made a mental note.

The angel smiled. “Salutaria.” He seemed to be making the (probably wise) choice to ignore the small outburst. Crowley watched him as he raised his cup with a smile, and that snark, that demonic bluntness, seemed to fade away for just a moment. 

They clinked jugs.

“In Rome long?” The angel asked after taking a drink. 

Bloody decades, the demon wanted to reply. Instead, he felt himself lie, not wanting the angel to know how long he’d been cooped up in this empire. 

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?” He turned to look at the angel, who was clearing his throat.

“Well, I thought I’d try patronuses new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.” He said, his voice rising and falling in a way that seemed like he had chosen Crowley as his confidant. 

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley said thoughtfully, raising his jug for another drink.

Aziraphale, mid drink, put down his mug. “Oh.” He said, “Well, let me tempt you to-” The demon looked up at him, smiling, his eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses.

“Oh. Well. No, that's, that’s your job, isn't it?” The angel said hurriedly. 

The demon only smiled and took a drink amusedly. “Well,” he started, “If an angel can tempt, I suppose I can eat an oyster.” He put down his drink. 

“Patronuses new restaurant, you said?”

With fifteen minutes, a horse drawn chariot, and a minor miracle, the two of them had a table overlooking a peaceful garden. Aziraphale was smiling excitedly, looking eager, like a child opening a gift. Crowley resisted the urge to watch him and instead looked down at the oysters, which had arrived minutes ago, and decided that they looked rather too much like maggots for his taste. “You just. Eat them out of the shell then?” He asked cautiously.

Aziraphale reached over, picked one up, and poured it straight into his mouth. “Like so,” he said, smiling somehow while he ate. Usually, Crowley would consider this level of sheer, well, glee, or positivity, somewhat disturbing. But as much as Crowley hated to refer to an angel of the Lord as cute, well, it’s what Aziraphale was. Absolutely bloody adorable. 

He tried to shake the thought from his head, he couldn't. 

He was sitting there, in a goddamn (satandamn?) tunic, golden curls glowing in the sunlight, lighting up his face like a halo, and he was beaming, it was absolutely ridiculous the amount of happiness that this man seemed to be projecting.

He didn't know how he hadn't seen it- sure he’d known that he enjoyed being around Aziraphale, he loved the sense of his aura, the conversations they had, but he never once really, truly looked at Aziraphale, looked at him for what he is. He isn't some asshole angel, he’s beautiful, really, radiating kindness and just sheer joy and everything that's both unangelic and undemonic all at once. 

“Just like that, huh?” Crowley asked, trying to find some way to stay on topic (on topic meaning oysters, that is, not Aziraphale’s hair or smile or aura or anything like that.)

“I wouldn't take it that a demon would be afraid of a little mollusk,” Aziraphale teased, something he’d picked up on from humans recently. 

Crowley smile a little half smile, reached for an oyster shell, and tipped the thing right back into his mouth, how Aziraphale had done it.

Crowley had never really quite gotten the hang of human food- drink tended to be more his thing- but even by his standards, this was truly fucking strange. The oyster was all slimy and definitely a little maggoty, but somehow tasted good too. He swallowed, scrunched up his face a little. 

“Not bad.” He admitted.

“Haha!” The angel near shouted. He brought his voice down an octave as people started staring. 

As he quieted down, he looked at Crowley, who was still sniggering about Aziraphale’s small social failure, and just at the obscurity of it all, the fact that an angel and a demon were eating oysters together in Rome, it just cracked him up.

His laughter slowed as he looked up at Aziraphale who was just sitting there, watching. 

“What are you looking at angel?” He asked, laughter still in his voice.

“You know,” Aziraphale dropped his voice an octave, “You don’t have to wear those around me.” He motioned to Crowley’s sunglasses. “You can be yourself around me, Crowley.”

Maybe it was the softness of his voice, or the earnest honesty in the angel’s eyes, or how very close the two of them were all of a sudden, but Crowley jerked back. 

“Now you wouldn't want that,” he said, trying to pull some of that joking attitude back into his voice, knowing he was failing. 

Aziraphale just looked at him, as if his eyes could pierce right through the shaded glass. 

“You don’t have to hide. I hope you know that.”

Crowley stood up quickly, an excuse already darting to his mind.

“Shit, shit, angel I gotta go. Ligur’s calling. Demon radar and what not. He can’t know we were together.” 

This was a lie, including the bit about the existence of a demon radar, but Crowley’s heart was pounding, an organ that most demons didn't seem to possess, and his head felt light. All at once, he only knew two things, and one of them was that this conversation could NOT go forward. 

So he scrunched his eyes closed, and dissolved into a cloud of black, leaving a white-tunic clad angel alone at a table for two. 

Maybe it was better that way, Crowley thought as he appeared in the small boarding room he’d been staying in while conducting demonic duties. Because he also knew the second thing that he realized at that moment. 

He had feelings for Aziraphale.

And that was an unacceptable fact.


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale pulled on his silver helmet again. It was another day in a bloody suit of armor, another day prancing, sorry, clanging around a misty field, trying to spread the good word of heaven and all that.

Usually, Aziraphale treated all of Heaven’s duties with the utmost care and love and attention.

But this? This seemed. Well, unnecessary.

Gabriel had been beaming with joy when he assigned this task, and he clearly had assumed Aziraphale would be too. 

“You get to be a knight of God!” he’d cried, “Just like the good old days!”

Aziraphale was tempted to correct. He was never a knight. He was a foot soldier, in the days of the original heaven vs hell battle, the one that condemned hell to rot below ground and cast away all rebellious angels (like Crowley, whispered that little voice in his head that was ever so stubborn and could not let things go) down to hell. 

“It’s perfect!” Gabriel said, the most exciting Aziraphale had ever seen him. 

“Honestly,” the gray-tunic clad man said. “I wish I could take your place. Really.”

Aziraphale had smiled and nodded and agreed, but in reality, he always hated being a soldier. He’d never truly been the “Warrior of God” type. He felt far more at home with, as dweeby as this sounds, a bible (or literally any other book) or scripture then he did with armor or a sword. 

“Maybe you could even get the old flaming sword back out again, eh? Warm it up before Armageddon?” Gabriel jostled his arm.

“Oh. Yes. What an excellent idea.” Aziraphale had said anxiously. If it wasn't so cold in Heaven, he’d be sweating.

Now, over five months later, Aziraphale wished to God herself that he had the sword. At least it'd warm him up. He’d been given five foot soldiers who wished to gain their place in heaven by serving under Aziraphale as they continued to spread King Arthur’s rosy Christian influence across Wessex. 

Aziraphale hated every minute of it. The gruely campfire food, the cold armor in the morning, the constant damp that seemed to be a Northern European trademark, all of it. There were very few moments in which he got to be a hero for Heaven- most of those who they even had to fight were petty robbers, hoping to strip down campsites. He did have a cape, which was nice. Very dramatic and quite cozy. But other than that, there were no perks.

Besides, he hated killing people. In fact, he flatout refused to. He was an angel, after all. Sure, he’d been a bystander to many a death, but that was different. His hand wasn't on the blade. 

He knew it was just a technicality, but was it though? And he knew what Gabriel expected of him but he wasn't so sure that he really could comply. 

When a sword was thrusted back into his hands, he felt like he was back at Eden (a feeling he was having way too often) where he just felt, well, helpless really. Guilty. 

Humans, though, Aziraphale learned, weren't like that. Humans, no matter what, would fight for what they thought was right, would fight for their side or there people without a thought. 

Sometimes, Aziraphale just wanted to be more human. Or at least a little more brave.

That was another thing he’d been trying out recently- bravery. It was exhausting, yes, but since he and Crowley had gotten oysters some five hundred years back Aziraphale had been trying to expand his horizons. 

He had to envy the demon a little bit- he seemed so capable of doing exactly what he wanted whenever he wanted to.

However, today promised a little excitement.

As much as Aziraphale hated big fights, he did rather enjoy playing knights, with the shining armor and cape and the heroics and all that. It was rather fun, as long as swords remained sheathed and a few miracles kept them there.

But today was supposed to be a little exciting. Today, he was going to confront the black knight. 

He’d heard tales of this man- about how he was his moral opposite, how they were born enemies, how eben their uniforms reflected this, one clad in white silver, the other in black steel. He’d heard that the black knight was his true nemesis. 

It was a misty morning. It was like the Almighty had gotten the memo and decided to be as dramatic as possible. It was a cool morning, and everywhere, the deep forests and muddy fields, was coated in a low hanging fog, the thickest Aziraphale had even seen in the region.

Yes, there was an anxiety there too, but as he grew closer to the Black Knight’s campsite, a sort of calm fell over him. It was like the place itself was almost whispering that it would be alright, that somehow, things weren't as bad as they seemed. 

Despite this, Aziraphale’s voice quavered (with, he would argue later, only anticipation, though anyone in the vicinity would disagree) as he called out into the fog, using every once of modernized human english that he had learned. 

“Hello?” His voice seemed to loom there in the thick mist. “I, Sir Aziraphale, of the table round, am here to speak with the Black Knight.”

If there was music, it would have swelled dramatically. 

The fog swirled as a dark shape became visible, a man, crouching ever so slightly, as if ready for an attack. 

“Oh. Right. Um,” The angel stuttered slightly, “Hello.” He said, a little too warmly for the current situation.

He could swear anxiety was spilling out of him. Is that what humans call sweating? Whatever it was, the armor wasn’t helping. 

The crouching man motion at him, beckoning him forward. “Come, come,” He practically growled. 

“I-” See, this, this right here is why Aziraphale is a terrible knight. This is why this whole knighthood soldier-of-god thing was an awful idea. That aura of nearly calm familiarity was dissipating quickly as Aziraphale’s gut twisted. 

“I,I,I was hoping to meet with the Black Knight,” Aziraphale said, still trying to stick to the plan.

The fog swirled as more shadowy forms appeared around Aziraphale, surrounding him on every side. Missions hadn't gone this badly before. 

Another dark black-armor figure appeared, marching straight towards Aziraphale, mist swirling around him as if it was made simply for his dramatic entrance. 

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one,” he boomed, “and you have found your death.”

Something about how he said found, something about that voice seemed familiar.

Suddenly, it all made sense. The aura, the voice, the dramatics. 

“Is that you under there, Crawley?” He asked. 

“Crowley.” Crowley corrected, a sharpness in his voice, lifting up the faceplate of his helmet, eyes glowing through the mist. Eyes Aziraphale hadn't seen in over 500 years. 

“What the hell are you playing at?” asked the angel. 

“It’s alright lads, I know him, he’s all right.” Called Crowley to the steadily approaching small group of snarling men behind him. The crouching man vanished back into the mist. He looked back into Aziraphale’s face, shifted uncomfortably under all the armor. “I’m here spreading ferment,” he answered honestly.

“Is that some kind of porridge?” 

“No! Um, you know, fermenting the court, King Arthur’s been spreading to much peace and tranquility and all that so I’m. Eh. You know, fermenting.” The demon answered with many a pause and a stutter.

“I’m meant to be fermenting peace.” The angel responded, as it became clear that neither of them knew exactly what fermenting meant.

“So we’re both working very hard in very damp places and just. Cancelling each other out?” The demon asked. 

“Right, you could put it like that.” Said the angel, recalling just how much he hated this whole knights thing. “It is a bit damp.” He said earnestly.

“It would be easier,” The demon said, his voice hushed just a tad, “If be both stayed home.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him in shock. Eyes widening, pupils dilating, mouth opening just a tad, full on, total, shock.

“If we just sent messages back to our home offices saying we’ve done everything they asked for, wouldn't it?

“But that would be lying.” The angel cut in, appalled. 

The demon shifted again, armour clanking, making another one of those obscure sounds that only a demon could make. “Ehh, possibly, the result would be the same.” He raised his eyebrows. “Cancel each other out.”

The angel gasped. “But my dear fellow, we’re, well, well they’d check! I mean- and Micheal’s, well, bit of a stickler and, er, we don’t want to get Gabriel upset with you.”

“Oh, they’ve got a lot of better things to do then verifying compliance reports from us. Who wants all that paperwork? Eh, they seem happy enough. As long as we seem to be doing something. Every now and again.”

“No!” The angel shouted. “Absolutely not. I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We’re not having this conversation, not another word!” He boomed, turning around and clanking off in that god awful armor. 

“Right,” Crowley responded rather meekly.

“Right.” Aziraphale stated, and stomped off in the general direction of his horse.

Behind him, Crowley slid his faceplate shut, shrugged, and turned back to his companions. 

This whole idea was absurd. Lying to heaven? Defying orders, and with a demon too? Aziraphale would be lucky if he kept his wings, much less his life.

It was absurd. Totally impossible. Aziraphale marched back into the stupid, overdramatic, tempting, demonic mist, heart thumping with reighteous anger. 

Utterly ridiculous.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the worst state Crowley had even seen London to be in. 

It had started in early July in the city- when the plague tagged the Black Mortality by some sick fuck caught up to the Island. 

It had started in Asia and spread like wildfire- Italy, France, Constantinople crumbling, it’s walls and military defenses useless. 

Sure, Crowley had seen plagues, seen illness, seen small pox and chicken pox and malaria before, but this was different. 

He could smell it in the air. Within 350 years, he’d have a quote to fit the docket: Something Wicked This Way Comes.

This wasn't the sort of wicked that was fun and demonic and an annoyance on the back of humanity. This wasnt even a Beelzebub kind of wicked. 

This was a wicked so dark that it was of it’s own design, a wicked so capable that not heaven nor hell had unleashed it. 

It was hell on earth. As someone who had spent far too many hours in Hell for his liking, Crowley could attest to that. All across the continent, people were dying near immediately, collapsing like rows of dominos over and over and over.

If Crowley tried really hard, days would tick by like hours, slow but survivable. But now, everywhere he walked, it was like the earth of pouring darkness into him. Every surface seeped a higher evil, a form of dark tragedy, a haunting image of death and destruction. Even if he sat in his flat and locked the door, he could feel it, creeping, waiting, haunting.

It only grew worse, like a ringing in your ear, when Hastur summoned him back to hell, effective immediately.

When he materialized, rows and rows of demons stood there, applauding and cheering and generally letting all hell loose. 

“This,” Beezlebub had said over the chaos, “was your best work yet, Craw- Crowley.”

He should've said something, he decided later. Even a- “this wasn't me” or a “thank you” would've been fine. Instead, he just stood there as applaud poured own upon him, crediting him for the horrors he wanted to avoid. Beezlebub even gave him a plaque. 

He’d never felt more sick. Sickened by hell, by this hellish creation that nobody knew the origins of, sickened by how death seemed to follow him, sickened by these tragedies that he couldn't stop. 

It made his breathing speed up, his heart clench, his lungs run out of air, it made him want to scream and run away. 

He knew he’d have Hell to pay (literally) if he threw the plaque away. Instead he shoved it in a cabinet, deep in his apartment, intending to never glance at it again in the rest of this bloody existence. 

But yet, the plague continued, tearing through cities, countries, slaughtering a continent with ease. 

Death had never been more busy. Crowley could feel his presence, constantly.

It was horrific. There was nothing he could do really. At night, he walked the streets, using miracle after miracle to save as many as he could until he felt drained, until there was no more magic hovering under his fingers, and even then, he watched as those who he had once cured succumbed to the same symptoms.

Hell sent him a demerit- a warning, really- regarding his use of unnecessary magic. The plague had been raging in London for only two months when he wanted to break, when he couldn't take it anymore. 

It had been over 800 years. Crowley knew that.

But he had a certain blond angel to find.

This had to bloody stop. 

Finding Aziraphale wasn't hard. As soon as Crowley heard about a library-turned-plague-clinic, he knew exactly who must be running it. Getting there became a blur in his mind. He was just so tired. And honestly, a little desperate. 

He knocked on the door. 

“I’m sorry,” a familiar voice said as the door was opened, “But we’ve reached full capacity. I can still take a look-” The door opened fully, revealing Crowley on one side, Aziraphale on the other.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said, realizing who he was talking to. Then, he surprised the both of them by lurching forward and pulling the demon into a tight, rib-cracking hug. 

Aziraphale’s aura washed over Crowley, reminding him of everything he’d ever missed. 

“Angel, I gotta breathe,” hissed the demon, trying not to reveal exactly how much he’d really missed him.

“Sorry, sorry.” Aziraphale said, releasing him quickly and awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. “I just. I haven't seen you in quite some time.” 

Crowley nodded. “Eight-hundred-and-five years.” He affirmed. 

And they stood like that, just for a moment, watching each other, remembering each other, Crowley leaning in the doorframe, and Aziraphale standing with a hand still on the knob. 

“So. What brings you here?” Aziraphale asked, eyes flitting away from Crowley’s gaze, because all at once, Crowley was remembering the last time they really talked, over oysters, when Crowley ran away. More than that, he was remembering why.

“A favour.”

“If this is about that arrangement you were on about in Wessex-”

“No. No. Different kind of favour.” The demon interrupted, closing his eyes for half a moment.

“Well.” Aziraphale said, stepping aside to reveal a dreary room. “Come in.”

Crowley obliged. 

The room no longer looked like a library. The room was small to begin with, and the bookshelves that once formed rows had been pushed up against the walls. Now, over twenty beds were crammed into the room, each with a person lying inside. The air seemed stale, humid. You could sense the sick. The librarian’s desk was cluttered with jugs of water and damp cloths. Windows were covered by long streaming fabric, fabric the color of gray-blue storm clouds. 

“This is quite…” The demon started. 

“I know.” Aziraphale said, placing a hand on the demon’s shoulder. 

“I rotate patients every 8 hours. Gives the miracle enough time to set in.” He walked over to a bed, where a sleeping boy lay. Aziraphale patted his head sadly. “Plague took both is parents. I’ve cured him four times now. There's no permanent miracle.” The angel explained sadly.

“I know.” Crowley responded. “I’ve tried.”

“I suppose we can only fix the temporary.”

“We?”

“Well.” The angel grew flushed for a moment. “I suppose so.”

There was a pause.

“What as that favor?”

Crowley winced. “It’s a rather big one.”

The angel paused. “Alright then. What is it?”

Crowley leaned back. He hated asking for help. “I- I want you to knock me out.”

“You want me to what?”

“Knock me out. With a miracle, of course. I’d do it myself, of course,” he started to explain hurriedly, “but I can't keep the magic flowing when I’m unconscious. I just wake back up.” This was all true. He’d tried it. 

The angel turned to look at him, and Crowley remembered that he’d left his glasses at home. He averted his eyes. 

“Why,” the angel stepped closer, “Do you want me to knock you out?” His voice was smooth, gentle. Like he was talking to a wounded animal. 

Crowley hated that voice.

“Nevermind,” He said hurridly, “This was stupid.”

“No, Crowley, don’t run away agai-”

“And I don't want your pity, you can keep that-”

“No, I just, I want to-” 

“Judge me-” Crowley cut in, turning away from the angel.

“Understand.” The angel finished firmly, and Crowley stopped midway to the door.

Crowley sighed. 

“I can’t be here during all this.” He whispered. “I can.. Feel the death. Feel the pain, it’s everywhere. The darkness and pain and just.. Sickness. It’s everywhere, Aziraphale, and it’s overwhelming me. I feel like it’s going to consume me whole, and I can’t stop it, not from getting to me or millions of others.” He looked at his hands with disgust. “What’s the point of these if I can’t make a bloody difference?” He hissed. “I just. I can’t do this anymore. I need you to knock me out, and wake me up when it’s over.”

He looked up into the angel’s blue eyes. He could see his own glowing in the glassy reflection. 

“Alright,” The angel said softly.

“Really?”

“Of course, Crowley.”

Crowley grinned, the relief spreading all through his body. 

“Oh, thank you. I was starting to go bloody mental.” He shifted awkwardly. “So. How is this going to work?” 

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I’ll get you an extra bed in the back. If anyone asks, you're just another patient.”

Crowley smiled. “Are you sure you want me here?”

“Course.” 

And within twenty minutes, Crowley was asleep near a copy of Galileo’s Heliocentric theories, a wool-knit blanket summoned by a certain angel pulled over him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a shorter chapter, but it gets the point across. Enjoy some angst and also fluff (ish) at the same time? idk what to call this. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and please comment! I love all of your feedback- no matter what.

It had been two weeks since his “clinic” had to be shut down. Gabriel insisted miracles were better used elsewhere. He’d even come to the library to do so. 

‘Really, Aziraphale,” The archangel had said. “We both know this whole- what are they calling it now? The big sick, no, great plague? No- black deadliness? Whatever it is, it’s just an ordinary bout of human failure. We knew this was coming. Apparently, hell had a role in unleashing it.”

“Really?” Aziraphale had asked. 

“Yeah. Beezlebub said it was that one demon… er, Crawley?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale corrected. 

“Yes. Him. Apparently, Hell’s got no idea how he did it. But we’d know if it was the Almighty, and it certainly wasn't you, and you're our only Earth operative at the moment.” Gabriel explained.

“Crowley? Really?”

“It’s what the demoness said. Hey, it does mean you are up against a truly evil nemesis. I'm sure you’ve thwarted him a good few times, but occasionally, the demons get a leg up on us. Pay it no mind.” He paused. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Who?” Aziraphale questioned politely. 

“The demon. Crowley.”

“Oh. No. Not in a good while. No, no, no interactions there. None at all, in the last few decades I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said quickly, shifting on his heels. 

“Ah.” Gabriel said, as if this clarified everything. 

“Anyways, general message is that this will pass. It always does.” The Archangel said with complete certainty. “Most of Africa, India, and the Americas are untouched. Humanity will be fine.” He patted Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“But watch out for that demon. I’ll check in later. But shut down that clinic. There really is no point. You can't go wasting miracles.”

He vanished in his usual heavenly fashion. 

Aziraphale had sighed.

Thank God. 

Because about four meters from where the archangel had stood, a demon, the demon, lay, where he had been laying for almost a year now, covered by a blanket. 

Aziraphale sat down, trying to stop his hammering heart. 

That had been close. Too close. 

But, he reminded himself, it was over now. Gabriel was gone. He hadn't gotten found out. Everything was fine. 

Since he’d take Crowley under his care, he’d been trying to be more, er, rational. Less anxious about everything. He wanted to be wiser, more angelic. A better caretaker.

If he was getting all anxious every time an angel popped by (which was rare, to be fair) than he’d fail. And he couldn't have that. 

Crowley trusted him. 

And despite what Gabriel had said, about Crowley starting this whole plague and all that, Aziraphale knew he should return the favor. 

See, Aziraphale had done a lot of research since Crowley had semi-permanently claimed sickbay number twelve. Research about demons and angels and all that. Yes, most of it was written by humans and was therefore gibberish, but a few things stood out to Aziraphale that made sense.

Angels and demons were natural opposites. One the servant of god, the other the servant of Satan. One lived in the sky (ish. Heaven’s place in the sky had always been iffy. However, they did have the top floor in their apartment building), the other in the deep recesses of the Earth. One perished by fire, the other water.

The point was clear.

And angels, angels could sense and react to feelings generally considered by humans to be angelic- kindness, love, peacefulness, those sorts of things. It’s one of the reasons Aziraphale so loved a certain bakery- he could sense the utter quantity of love that had been rolled into each buttery bite. But to demons, suffering, darkness, angst, death, those things stood out to them, filling their senses like a scent, overtaking their minds.

To most demons, apparently, it was a nice sensation. Maybe nice isn't the right word. Hastur apparently enjoyed it- he took many walks through Europe during the many plagues. It was one of the only times he’d crawled up from under the Earth. (He also once went to catch an early screening of Kevin Spacey’s Time To Kill.) 

But Crowley was different. To Crowley, it was as if your neighbor’s bad angst music was turned by to eleven, through your entire body, somehow reminding you of everything you hate about yourself, and it never stops. 

Aziraphale already hated the plague. 

But with this sensory issue, he couldn't imagine. 

Aziraphale grew more concerned when he decided to stop by Crowley’s apartment. To pick up some fresh clothes, he argued, for when he woke up. He’d want a change of clothes.

The apartment was an absolute mess. 

Aziraphale had known Crowley long enough to know that he was a bit of a neat freak. Not obsessive about it or anything, but he liked it when things were neat, clean. Simple.

The floors were strewn with contents of what had once been a small bar- empty bottles and broken glass. The windows had been bloted shut and covered with dozens of layers of cloth. Like he was trying to keep something out. And lying next to the door was rows and rows of torn shirts that had clearly once been stuffed into the cracks in the door. Sheets were half off the bed, pillows lying across the floor. 

The house was devoid of any food.

Aziraphale leaned down to check a cabinet, to see if there was any sign of real life in this apartment and there it was. Shoved in the very, very back, as if it was hidden, turned backwards, was a plaque.

“Official Commendation from Hell for Truly Horrendous Demonic Activity.” Aziraphale read aloud. “Awarded to A.J Crowley for aiding to incite the Black Mortality.”

Aziraphale put it back down, and that, right there, is when he understood.

Crowley hadn't done this.

But what if he felt like he had?

Aziraphale went back to the library, where he tucked a fresh blanket around the demon, and stretched the miracle a little further so that as he slept, the demon would dream about whatever he liked best.

It was a trick he’d tried on humans before. But perhaps it would work on a demon as well. 

He sighed and miracled himself a cup of tea as he thought about the plague.

He wanted it to end, oh so badly. All the suffering and the pain and the helplessness, and. He took a sip, telling himself not to think about that last reason because it was selfish and angels are not supposed to be selfish, but he couldn't help it. He wanted it to end so that he could wake Crowley up. So that he could have Crowley back. So that Crowley could be better. 

It had been over eight hundred years. And yet, the angel thought with a smile, Crowley still came to him.

Crowley still truly trusted him

Crowley rolled over in his sleep. “Aziraphale,” He muttered softly, sleepily.

Aziraphale smiled. It was the first sign of activity he’d seen since he miracled him to sleep in the first place. He took a nice, long sip of his tea.

It’d be over soon, he decided.

The sun could shine upon humanity again. It had not gone down on ADam and Eve and it certainly wouldn't go down here.


	10. Chapter 10

This it, Aziraphale rushed around his apartment. It was November 1351, and London had officially been announced black-death free. The bodies had been buried, or burned, and even small coughs were investigated.

It was over, for now at least. But it was over enough that Aziraphale was ready to wake up Crowley. 

He’d cleaned up the library quite a bit in anticipation. He’d pulled down the sheets covering the windows so that sunlight would dance on swept wooden floorboards. He’d pushed the bookshelves back out so they could form the all-familiar stacks, and the beds had been cleared out. He’d even miracles in some new furniture- a soft padded couch, a small tea table, even a little kitchen area in the backroom so he could try his hand at cooking. He put on a kettle so that the tea would be ready by the time he woke Crowley up. He knew he could just miracle a cup, but he felt like doing it the usual way. The right way. And truthfully, yes, he was excited to wake Crowley up, to speak to and be with him again but, at the same time, he was oh so nervous.

What if as soon as the demon woke up, he left again, not to be seen for a hundred years? Or longer? Or what if too little time had passed, and he woke up still in that amount of pain he’d been in when he nearly broke down his door two years ago? 

He’d tried not to think too much about the demon barging his way in here, but he couldn't help it. He’d been so, well, desperate, a trait Aziraphale had not previously associated with the demon. Crowley was, well, cool. Collected. Confident. He may be eccentric, but he’d never approach Aziraphale like that unless he really needed him.

That, somehow, Aziraphale knew. 

He’d known this for a while now. There was a sense about Crowley, an honesty, almost, a something in his aura that had shifted ever so much. He couldn't quite place it, but it had that feeling that Aziraphale felt everytime he bit into a homemade roll or walked by a pair of newlyweds or when he picked up a child’s toy. It was a feeling to wholesome to belong to a demon, but it was still there. 

Aziraphale poured the tea and sat next to the demon’s bed.

It’s time. 

He placed a hand on the demon’s arm, willing the miracle to end. 

There was a pause- and then a shift, Aziraphale could see it. He took his hand back. 

Crwoley’s eyes opened, glowing extra bright. He sat up slowly.

“Crowley?” Whispered Aziraphale. “Are you- er-” He stopped, watching Crowley’s face. 

The demon closed his eyes, and seemed to be taking a deep breath, sensing the area around him. Aziraphale could almost feel him doing it.

“Alright?” The angel finished nervously.

Crowley opened his eyes and smiled. “Yes. Yes, it’s over. Thank yo-” He paused. “How, um. How long has it been?”

“Two years, about,” Aziraphale answered, the back of his neck sweating just a tad.

The demon sighed in relief. “It takes Hastur longer than that to read Dante’s Inferno. He’ll never know.” He looked up at Aziraphale and started to grin, smiling wider than Aziraphale had ever seen him smile before. He stood up, and pulled the angel into a hug.

“Thank you, angel,” He breathed. “It’s. It’s all clear again, you know?” He began to let go, and Aziraphale almost didn't want to. He wanted to stay there, forever, surrounded by the demon’s aura. But Crowley pulled away, and looked him dead in the eyes. “I mean it.”

Aziraphale had heard of the human custom of blushing. Texts were full of tales of blushing ladies- but he’d never gotten the feeling till that moment- that moment when he was looking into Crowley’s eyes and he was looking back into his, and Crowley had that look on his face and they were so close and. 

He pulled away.

“It was nothing,” He stammered. “Really. Don’t even worry, Crowley. I’m just.” He paused. “I’m glad that you are okay.”

Crowley smiled, his initial excitement seeming to die. It was a strange thing to watch, but Aziraphale could see it happening, as if a dark and sad thought had just occurred to him, like he just remembered the most deeply tragic thing in the universe. 

“I know you are, Aziraphale.” The demon said a little ruefully. “I know.”

“Well.” The angel said curtly, choosing to ignore the that rather than address it, maybe because he was trying to give the man some space he had just slept for two years and all, but really maybe it was because he was afraid of the answer. 

________________________

 

It was like the bible verse that humans so clung to. 

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light

Because oh jesus there was so much light and it was all at once, streaming really, all into his face, and he could feel his pupils adjusting and there he was.

Aziraphale.

And he felt himself move, sitting up, felt himself test out where he was in this blasted body, stretch out the cracks and begin to be. 

And that’s when he started to remember and for a moment, he remembered that tidal wave of darkness, of pain, of agony, and for a moment he was sure it was about to come crashing down on him, surrounding him in that feeling, suffocating him.

But that moment never came. Sure, there was a nagging sensation, as there always was when in London, but it was alright. It was over.

“Crowley?” The angel said softly, a question on his tongue. The demon’s head spun, separating what must have been years worth of dreams out of his head, trying to pull back to reality. He hated dreaming, really. It was in the bloody way. 

And then he remembered, his head still foffy, he remembered the feeling of Aziraphale’s door under his fists, the feeling of the angel’s hand on his back as he whispered “Good night, Crowley. See you soon,” The decrepit feeling of a library turned to desperate uses, the strange feeling of nothing being right.

As if he could read his thoughts, the angel’s soft voice cut through his thoughts.

“Are you, er, arlight?”

Crowley finished a scan of the area that he hadn't even realized he’d been doing. He took a deep breath of, notably, slightly dense dusty air, but air free of that haunting pain, agony, desperation, that plagued his memory.

Crowley began to smile. It was a little smile, but it was honest.

“Yes. Yes, it’s over. Thank yo-” He felt like he was babbling, thanking an angel, for chrissake? He paused, trying to recollect, trying to remember how to be a demon, how to be him. He turned to logic. “How, um. How long has it been?” His voice cracked just a little because even as he was trying to remember through this endless fog in his brain how he was supposed to speak with Aziraphale, he still felt, so, well, vulnerable, a feeling he hated. 

“Two years, about.” The angel answered, his voice dripping with sincere kindness. It was that kindness that was beginning to fill Crowley’s senses, beginning to cover up the hints of agony slipping in through the open window. But with those words, Crowley felt a fear, a constant fear of they’ll know leave the still rational part of his system.

“It takes Hastur longer than that to read Dante’s Inferno. He’ll never know.” Crowley was really smiling now, feeling like a weight had been lifted from him, feeling freer than he ever had. And with that, he abandoned the rational part of him entirely, the kindness and the angel’s aura overwhelming him, the sheer relief that it’s over, it’s over racing through his system. 

So he stood up and pulled the angel into a hug. 

“Thank you, angel,” He breathed. “It’s. It’s all clear again, you know?” He let go, breathing in Aziraphale’s familiar scent, of gentle dust and books and something sweet as he did so. He looked him dead in the eyes. “I mean it.” His heart felt like it was racing, reminding him, suddenly, of another feeling he knew well. 

And for a moment, they were there, noses almost touching, breath mingling, arms still around each other, and it almost looked like the angel’s cheeks were tinged with pink, and then Crowley remembered. He remembered exactly.

He pulled away as the angel stammered something about gratitude not being needed. He was barely listening because he remembered. 

He remembered everything he loved about the angel, every single thing that made him want to drown in his infatuations. Aziraphale’s eyes, almost glowing with excitement, his constant kindness to Crowley, the way he said “Let me temp you-” with his voice litting for just a half second, the way his aura rushed over him, his desire to do good, and henceforth his struggles with heaven, even his smell was somehow gentle and bookish and almost sweet.

And he remembered that Aziraphale would never love him. Because he was a demon. He was everything Aziraphale stood against. There was nothing about him Aziraphale could, or would, ever love. 

“I know you are, Aziraphale.” Crowley said, his heavy heart feeling like a stereotype, “I know.”

And he did.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Guys! I know this chapter took a while to get here. I just started an exchange program, so updates will be less frequent. However, I will still try my very best to get at least one chapter in per week.

Aziraphale stood in the Globe Theatre, rocking back and forth on his heels. Yes, he was engaged in the acting on stage as Shakespheare’s brilliant words rolled out of the mouth of a, er, under inspired actor, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

An Arrangement had been made. An Arrangement of such serious, massive, biblical proportions that it must be capitalized. 

The arrangement had been made like this, approximately eight minutes after Crowley’s two-year miracle ended:

Crowley: I should go to France and make sure Hastur thinks I’ve been all demonic during the last few years. 

Aziraphale: What if I, er, was to go for you? 

And that was it. With very little prodding or tempting on the part of the demon, (I mean, he did wince a little when he stood up and that was simply too much, clearly,) Aziraphale had agreed to something he’d been utterly opposed to 800 years back. 

And now, standing in this theatre, he couldn't help but wonder a little why. 

“Oysters! Oranges!” A merchant hollered.

Aziraphale smiled. He loved the theatre. You could stand and watch work that was almost, er, miraculous, unfold before your eyes, and all the while someone brought food right to you.

He miracled a coin into existence with some extra fervor. “Some grapes, please.” He said politely, as if he wasn't nearly having an internal crisis regarding a particular demon and a particular capital A- Arrangement. 

“They look scrumptious.” He remarked, using a word he had learned only recently. 

Just standing in that theatre was a true act of rebellion. Using a miracle on Crowley had been a revolution, really. Fireworks lighting up the night sky, lightbulbs (which did not currently exist, for the record) and all that. 

Crowley stalked into the theatre. 

He’d been busy as of late. He had a list, a list of achievements that he considered to be truly demonic. By the early 2000s, the list would be truly impressive:

A Partial List of Crowley’s (Somewhat Demonic) Creations: (Last updated 2019)  
Swimming Masks (do not google if you value your sanity)  
Selfies  
Pebbles that get stuck in your shoe  
Sand That Sticks To You  
Horses  
Shots (as in vodka)  
Portable Sauna (actually, please google this one)  
Cone Mask (the early 20’s provided many opportunities to create masks)  
Bed Piano (Freddie Mercury inspired)  
Those head-covering heaters from salons  
Tumblr (it’s called a hellsite for a reason)  
Group Showers  
The M25 and DC Beltway  
Apple “Lightning” charging ports   
Junk Mail  
The Kardashians  
Stockings that tear  
Hashtags  
Walmart  
Leather Seats That Stick To Sweaty Limbs  
Pens That Run Out Of Ink  
Eurovision  
Self Check-Out Tills At Stores  
Cups Just Too Small To Fit Biscuits  
The Circle Line  
Overpriced Coffee

At the moment, however, he had a new, different sort of achievement in mind. More on that later. Right now, he was focused on Aziraphale, and only on Aziraphale. 

You know that feeling when you see someone that you have a dark past with? The type of person who’s very scent disgusts you, who’s voice sends shivers down your spine? Like the angel who smiled eerily when Crowley asked why and said in response I think I’ll enjoy it when you fall, or that one particular demon whose duty it was to torcher demon’s who don’t quite obey? Those peoples very aura, their smile, the sound of their words create an immediate reaction of dread and panic and fear and hatred? 

Aziraphale was the exact opposite.

Just being next to him was like standing next to a beacon of all things good and warm and soft. 

But enough on that. 

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here.” He muttered as he approached the angel. Aziraphale spun around, a grape on his lips, another causing a bulge in his cheek. Crowley’s Rome evaluation had been correct. The angel was bloody adorable. “Blend in with the crowds.” Crowley scoffed.

“Well.” The angel said, slightly flustered, “That was the idea.”

A man in eccentric crimson attire not unlike Crowley’s ran over. “Hang on,” He said to the actor.

“This isn't one of Shakespheare’s gloomy ones, is it?” He groaned. “No wonder no ones here.”

“Shh!” The angel whispered loudly. “It’s him, it’s him.”

Crowley shut up, and watched as the angel’s face started to change as the man grew closer.  
As he spoke, he stopped paying attention. Like before, it felt like all he was watching was Aziraphale, as he smiled, said something ridiculously innocent and sweet about commentary, his face glowing. 

His attention was pulled away when the actor spoke.

“And your friend. What does he think?”

And he felt his joy sink as the angel’s face fell, and those perfect lips moved to form something he hated hearing, everytime.

“Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.”

And Crowley smiled, too wide, his eyes comfortably hidden, and he responded with a familiar arrogance that danced easily on his tongue. 

“I think you should get on with the play.” 

And whatever fondness he had just been exploring, whatever was in that slightly teasing moment when he first arrived, was gone. He slipped back into that old familiarity, that old banter, that sameness. 

It’s what he could rely on.

But then as the monologue continued, Aziraphale launched fully into His Role As The Audience, beaming, throwing his fist into the air energetically. “Buck up Hamlet!” He finished, turning to look at Crowley, looking into his eyes, looking for an assessment, and the demon was smiling because goddamn he knew that fondness would never really go away.

Aziraphale was sweating nervously. In his mind, this act of great rebellion was spilling out now, highlighting his deviance, his angelicness, in bright yellow, pointing at it and screaming. He half expected the sky to split open and for God herself to pluck him up and knock him downwards.

And because, hell, why not admit it? Right now he cared about what Crowley thought and did and that scared him. 

“He’s very good, isn't he?” The angel remarked, trying to change the subject, his eyes on the actor. 

“Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety,” The demon remarked in response, and there it was again, that feeling in Aziraphale’s chest that made him feel like maybe it really was all okay, a feeling that justified all the rebelling. 

He changed the topic. “What do you want?”

“Why ever would you insinuate that I would possibly want something?” The demon remarked cockily.

“You are up to know good,” Aziraphale said, his tone preaching all that he’d said before on the exact same topic made up of only slightly different words.

“Obviously,” the demon remarked (see list above,) resisting the opportunity to stroke his beard with an aura of evil about him. 

“You're up to good, I take it?” He asked, a touch of snark in his voice. “Lots of good deeds?” He said, this time tipping over the whole pot of snark.

“No rest for the wi- well, good.” The angel paused.”I have to be in Edinburgh. End of the week.”

“Oh.” The demon remarked casually. 

“Couple of blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform. Apparently, I have to ride a horse.

Crowley made another one of those noises that only a demon could make. “Hard on the buttocks, horses. Amazing design flaw, if you ask me.” He orbited the angel again. “I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week,” He said, his voice too casual. “Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

“Doesnt sound like hard work.” The angel remarked.

“That’s why I thought we should.” He pasued, looking Aziraphale, “Well. Big waste of effort, both of us going to Scotland.”

“You cannot actually be suggusting what I infer youre implying?”

“Which is?

“Just one of us goes to Edinburgh. Does both. The blessing and the tempting.”

“Well, we’ve done it before. Dozens of times now.” Crowley’s voice moved into sing song. “The Arranggeement.”

“Don’t say that!” The angel cut in with a sharp whisper.

“Our respective head offices dont actually care how things get done. They just want to know they can cross it off the list.”

“But if hell finds out they won't just be angry-” The angel said, and instantly, Crowley’s mind was filled with images (like the kind with auras that fill him with dread) and he wanted to change the topic quick.

The angel’s voice was filled with concern. “-They’ll destroy you.”

“Nobody has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh.”

The angel sighed. “Fine. Heads.”

Crowley tossed the coin high, not a demonic miracle coursing from his veins.

“Tails, I’m afraid. You're going to Scotland.”

In the background, Shakespheare was lamenting about the failure of Hamlet. “It’s been like this every performance, Juliet. Complete dud. It’ll take a miracle to get anyone to come and see Hamlet.” 

And Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley felt that demonic confidence fall away.

“Yes alright.” He almost groaned. “I’ll do that one. My treat.”

“Oh really?”

“Mhmm. I still prefer the funny ones,” He remarked, and walked off.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m so sorry for the long gap between updates plus the brevity of this chapter. I’m currently doing an exchange program, so I’ve got a lot less free time then usual. However, I still think y’all will enjoy this chapter! Please comment and share your thoughts with me. I promise the next update will have a lil more substance :)

It had been a very ordinary day, a day so ordinary, in fact, that it was a Tuesday. Aziraphale was walking down his usual street to his usual stop (a bookshop considered to be modern at the time) where he’d pick up Shakespeare's latest or an epic romance if he was feeling risky. It was there when a book caught his eye- from the scientific developments section, a section he darent wander that often- titled The Garden of Eden, by Sir Hugh Platt. 

It was a simple book, bound in deep brown leather with lettering imprinted in gold. He picked it up, weighed it in his hands. Aziraphale has seen biblical literature before, but none quite like this. This was scientific a category not usually associated with the word of the lord. 

He opened it carefully. It was about houseplants, of all things, a new idea of household gardening and agriculture. 

He smiled, his mind stuck on something other than plants. 

Just under seven miles away, Crowley too was wandering the streets, with an intention to dramatize this ordinary day. He’d only just returned to London. He’d stepped out to some palace in China during the most recent revival of the great plague. And he could feel this plague now, as he walked along the cobblestone, he could feel it whispering and reminding and clawing at the surface, trying to tear itself out again. 

It was this that gave Crowley a plan. 

See, the Chinese had done some research of their own, research that Crowley had gotten his hands on while not preoccupied with dictating a silk empire, research that suggested that one of two things had occurred to cause the big plagues: either an ancient demon had cursed Europe (a theory that was not entirely wrong), or that disease had traveled through ships, and through stowaway critters in board. 

And it was from this information and a bit of complaining from a docksman who was just fed up with all them rats taking over the warehouses that led Crowley to where he was now, standing in a rather large wooden bakery, hands burning in a rather hellish fashion. 

It was 1666, and Crowley had made up his mind. 

He placed his hand to the floor, felt a miracle ripple through the air, and almost all instantly, the entire building erupted into flames. 

He knew it would spread quick. It was hellfire, after all, flames that followed no logic than the commandments of it’s summoner. He snapped his fingers and another miracle rippled through London. Everyone who would find themselves in the path of the fire would suddenly find themselves forgetting their keys, or realizing that they did need to go to the exact opposite side of town to buy bread, or shoes, or some variation thereof. 

Crowley closed his eyes as the flames towered around him. He sent his senses out, seeking that darkness, to find it curled up in misery. 

The darkness was dying. 

Later, historians would voice wonder at the fire of London. Though, granted, it did destroy large quantities of the city, there were only six fatalities. Not only that, but the fire has been credited with nearly ending plague in England. It seemed that the fire destroyed the majority of the infected rat population.

Another thing always stood out as odd, a story never quite discussed on the record. Every single family who lost a home that day experienced a miracle over the next year. A miraculous save from a brush with death, a few pounds found in the street when they were needed most, a job offer popping up unexpectedly, tax breaks suddenly being found. It was odd, for sure, but it was dismissed rather quickly. 

What historians certainty didn’t know was that when a certain demon came back home to his slightly dusty flat, a book was on his doorstep, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a slightly tartan string. 

Crowley picked it up with his smoke stained fingers. 

And the very next day, a houseplant sat on his windowsill, overlooking a city now defined by smoke and ghosts of buildings that once stood.


	13. Chapter 13

————-

Aziraphale has been in many a situation that he would define as, er, sticky, before. He’d been captured by pirates once. Or a time before that, he’d gotten trampled by a camel. That had been rather unpleasant. But the more he looked at this one, the more he realized that this was a sticky situation that he’d be stuck with. 

He was standing in a damp stone chamber, lit only by the light filtering through iron bars from a small windowsill. Also filtering in were three distinct other sounds: the slice of a blade, a horrified scream, and then screams of what sounded like joy. 

As he stood in the prison, listening to the last moments of people outside, feeling the shackles in his wrist, he suddenly understood something Crowley had preached about when drunk. 

“Sometimes, angel,” he had said, slurring the last word just a touch, “Humans do my job for me. Stirring foment and all that. Humans rather like doing my job for me.” 

Aziraphale could see that now. Massacring people by the dozen? Guillotines? There was nothing heavenly there. 

But back to his current situation. It was becoming clear to him that he really was absolutely, totally, screwed. A man cake in, and he had the audacity to joke. To prod. Azraphale has tried, was trying, to explain that really there was some kind of mistake that this was all a misunderstanding, but he was having none of it. He’d even busted out his French, which, though dusty and useless for anything other than ordering crepes, was a plea for help. 

“You are lucky that it is I, Jean Claude, that will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders.” He said, his voice edging into glee.

“This is all a terrible mistake,” Aziraphale said, his voice rushing, “I don’t think you understand-“

“I have good news for you.” The man cut in. “You are the 999th aristocrat to die at the guillotine by my hands.” 

There was a pause. “But the first English.” The man finished. He walked over to Aziraphale, reaching for his neck tie. 

Aziraphale’s reaction was quick and immediate as he stood up and backed away from the man. 

“Pleas,” he said, the word sounding like a command rather than a plead, “No.” his voice was firm. Hard. Stronger than he felt. “Dreadful mistake discorporating me. Oh, it’ll be a complete nightmare.” He sighed, already thinking about the soreness that’ll stick around for at least a decade and how Gabriel will not forget. 

“Animals.” He muttered under his breath, and suddenly, the air shifted. The man froze, facing the window. 

“Animals don’t kill each other will fancy machines.” Said a familiar drawl, “only humans do that.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the smile that flew to his face as he turned around. “Crowley.” He said. His eyes came to meet the demon, who was somehow both sitting and leaning on a wall section. He was clad completely in a ridiculous peasant outfit- all red and black with those obscure black spectacles. “Oh, good lord.” The angel remarked, looking him up and down. 

The demon chose to ignore that. “What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop.” 

“Well. I was.” The angel paused. “I got peckish.” Something a little like shame flooded his cheeks. 

“Peckish?” The demon asked, an eyebrow floating up above his glasses. 

“Well, if you must know, it was the crepes. You can’t get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche.” The angel said defensively. 

“Just popped across the channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble?” The demon questioned again, his drawl and eyebrow remaining the same. “Dressed like that?” 

“I have standards!” Aziraphale cut in, tempted to add a snarky comment about Crowley’s choice attire. “And I had heard they were getting a bit carried away over here but-“

The demon cut in. “No, this is not getting a bit carried away. This is cutting lots of peoples heads off very efficiently with a big head cutting machine.” The demon sighed. “Why don’t you perform another miracle and just got home?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I was reprimanded last month. Too many frivolous miracles. I got a sternly worded note from Gabriel.” He admitted.

“Then your lucky I was in the area.” 

The angel’s cheeks flushed. “I suppose I am.” He searched his mind for a quick subject change, and victoriously, he landed on one. “Why are you here?” 

From his tone of voice, Aziraphale could sense the demon cooling back, like a snake, just a touch. “My Lot,” He said, trying to pull some form of braggadocio into his tone “sent me a commendation got outstanding job performance.” 

Aziraphale felt something soldify in his chest, a heavy feeling, suspicion or maybe anger, and it came bubbling to the surface. “So all this is your demonic work?” He said sharply, because in his head he was remembering that demons would always be demonic and thinking that maybe he was a bit of a fool for thinking otherwise.

“No!” The demon cries, his voice cutting through the angel’s epiphany, “the humans thought it up themselves.” He seemed to sink back a bit into his ledge as his voice turned slightly to mumble. “Nothing to do with me.” 

Aziraphale looked at him as that feeling in his chest melted, because then he did remember why he trusted Crowley. Why he’d befriended a demon of all things.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the chains binding Azirapahle’s hands together fell to the floor. 

The angel rubbed his wrists gratefully. “Well, I suppose I should say thank you. For the, uh, rescue.”

The demon lurched forward, standing up from his ledge. “Don’t day that. If my people hear I rescued an angel I’ll be the one in trouble and my lot do not send rude notes.” Crowley was trying his very best to not think about the things they’d do instead as he walked towards the angel. 

“Well. Anyway, I’m very grateful.” The angel said, racking his mind for a way to show his appreciation when he remembered Rome. He smiled. “What if I buy you lunch?” 

“Looking like that?” Scoffed the demon, oooking the angel up and down from behind his sunglasses. 

The angel felt a miracle rush through his fingers. He was now clad in clothing that could be properly described as revolutionary- not in a fashion sense, unfortunately, but revolutionary with ribbons and grime and shoes without satin. Behind him, the executioner found his own clothing replaced with Azirapahle’s old wardrobe. 

“Barely counts as a miracle, really,” Azirapahle justified quietly. 

Crowley nodded at the executioner, who had recently found himself very much unfrozen and also very much in custody of gulliotine escorts, “dressed like that he’s asking for trouble.” He smiled.”Whats for lunch?” 

The angel’s cheeks flushed again as he returned the grin. “What would you say to crepes?”

The demon decidedly had nothing aganist that, and so it was.

As the sour left the stone chamber, their voices echoed down the hallways. “Thank you for the book, by the way.” 

A self-pleased smile could be heard in the responders voice. “Oh yes. I thought you’d get a kick of that.” 

“Of?”

“Isn’t that the saying? Get a kick of that?” 

“Aziraphale, it’s out of. Get a kick out of that.” 

“Shouldn’t it be from? That makes the most grammatical-“

A sigh, then: “We’ve really got to work on your slang, angel.” 

“My slang is perfectly alright, thank you.” 

Laughter filled the chamber, soon interrupted by gleeful screams. Another execution had gone successfully. 

But to the two men walking up damp stone steps, they were the only two beings in the world in that moment, steps synchronised, friendly arguments somehow following a beat of their own creation


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! Thanks so much for reading. This is a shorter chapter, but it's hella loaded. On that note, I am listing some TWs for this chapter, as it's pretty intense. For the record, it will get better. this is just a dark patch. Anyways, please leave me any feedback at all. I love each and everyone of your comments!
> 
> TWs:
> 
> \- Mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts  
> \- depressive thoughts  
> \- general self hatred

Crowley sat in his marble living room, right there on the cold floor, in front of an empty fireplace that he really did intend to get removed. It was like he was playing the opposite of that childs don't-touch-the-floor game, but instead he was trying to touch as many surfaced as possible, the floor, the wall, the edge of the fireplace, all of it. He just really didn't want to move all that much. He had days like these sometimes. Apparently, all demons on earth did. Hastur, when he did visit, usually chased his away by causing fires, or an earthquake or two. 

It wasn't really just a day anymore. Eventually, the minutes and hours and evenings stretched into weeks, then months, and edged into years. 

Crowley had been having a sinking feeling for sometime now. It’d been sticking to him since London, since the plagues, since before then, really, if he thought about it, a feeling festering and growing. A feeling that lurched when Hell asked him to do acts of true evil, not demonic disturbances, but aiding to murder, starting violence, whispering in the ears of dictators, spiraling ideas that were once promising for society into destruction, it all felt like it was surronding him, sticking to him, choking him, because some days he was drowning it it, and he wasnt going to run off to Aziraphale and beg him to knock him out again with a head full of sweet dreams to make it all better.

And internally, he knew there was something else there too. 

Maybe it was a self destructive streak that he’d always had, you really cant fall from bloody heaven without it, or maybe it was the fact that he was a little more human than he’d like to admit, but adding to this pool of darkness was this knowledge he’d been clinging to for ages, this awareness of his weakness for Aziraphale, and even worse, the knowledge that Aziraphale would never, could never, feel the same.

It was so petty, which was part of the reason Crowley hated the feeling. So human. So goddamn weak and stupidly masculine but he couldn't help but feel not rejected, but disappointed. Yearning, he’d learned, seemed to be the word. 

He didn't want to live with this angel for an eternity, holding this secret, holding these feelings, knowing that Aziraphale would never return them. 

He loved being with the angel, he really did. Every moment, every picnic, every dinner or lunch or breakfast or whatever humans were calling meals nowadays, he loved those moments. Banter in prison cells, books left on doorsteps, introductions to strange foods that made the angel beam with joy, he sometimes felt like he lived for those moments, moments where they’d be so close to one another and then move away too quickly.

But when he’d walk or miracle himself back home he’d do so with this new heavy feeling slowly wrapping itself around him, reminding him that those moments were lies, were false, that it was pointless to even hope because at the end of all things, it was a useless dream, a bloody fantasy, and it was hopeless. 

Because the angel was good. No, fuck good, he was perfection. He was all things glowing and sweet and his entire aura was that feeling when you can’t help yourself and have to smile. He was all things stereotypical, he was buttercups and softly scented roses, he was sunlight and warmth, he was ridiculous and oh so bloody stupid and yet it was all so endearing. He wore the strangest assortment of satin to revolutions, he disobeyed God directly, he ate obscure human foods for the fun of it, he was so. So. There wasn't a word. 

Crowley sighed. It might not be helping that he wasn't leaving the flat, or the floor for that matter. He’d been mostly here for about two decades now. It was a pattern. When he last saw Aziraphale, when he’d been setting up the place, he’d called it nesting.

Demons. Do. Not. Nest.

But still, it’d been decades since he’d seen the blonde, and he was starting to see the truth to the angels words. 

He wasn't nesting. He’d go with festering. Like a wound, some part of him whispered but he’d always ignore that.

A lot of parts of him had been whispering lately, thoughts echoing through his apartments marble walls, and he’d try to ignore them, he’d really try, but he’d been thinking a lot too, and sometimes it was those whispers that made sense. 

Something that made the oh so easy to listen to.

He snapped his fingers, and the cold marble fireplace, empty of wood or kindling, erupting into fire. Hellfire, Crowley knew. The heat radiated around him, almost comfortingly, but not quite. He picked up a hand, and slowly, gently, reached out to caress the flames. 

He felt nothing. Not even a tickle. It was a familiar sensation, one marked with the feelings of Hell, one that pricked up old scars and sent goosebumps down his arms.

He made a fist. The flames extinguished themselves, and he was left alone in the darkness. 

It was pitiful, really, the more he thought about it. He was a demon. He shouldn't sit and home and mope, mourn a relationship that never had, and never would, exist, and he shouldn't be questioning the morality of the universe, the morality of his own existence.

But he did.

It had always been easy for Crowley to be detached. To find a clever thing to say rather than feel any real sorrow. But over the last centuries, it had been getting harder. More and more darkness seemed to slink on this Earth, wrapping around him and pulling him close. He used to greet it like an old friend, when he sensed it, knowing that his lot had helped put it there, and that it’s very existence was a very loud FUCK YOU to topside.

But it’d changed, somehow. Warped a bit. Maybe it was just the humans. They often come up with their own very dastardly plans. Hell loved sending Crowley commendations for them. Wars he played no part in, massacres that he slept through, coups that he’d heard of but paid no mind to. It was the humans doing all that, no push from Hell nor Heaven. Maybe that’s why the darkness was so, well, unfamiliar. It wasn't being of his own creation anymore. It wasn't something he could nod at and remember and greet, it was a separate aura, a separate being, one that stalked and hunted and haunted and fed. 

It had become a monster. 

And Crowley knew, logically, that it wasn't a real beast. There was no monster under the bed, no black-eyed creature hunting him in the night, no ghost behind his shoulder, but it felt like one. It was the only way he could describe it. 

It was a monster that filled his senses and whispered in his ear as it painted the walls red with blood it’s all thanks to you. 

It was illogical, he tried to justify, but it wasn't really, because even before he’d followed all of Hell’s orders, even before he’d watched the things he watched and did the things he did he’d fallen, God had declared him a foul enough being to deserve to slam down to earth, burned and scoured and broken and changed. It wasn't irrational because he knew that if it he really looked at himself, really, really, looked, all he’d see is a swirling black hole.

He slammed his head against the marble, trying to rid the image from his brain. He sighed, long and hard. Because he had a solution. He knew he did. And he knew how to get at it. He could end this.

It would be so easy.

His head ached as he stood up. It always had been, recently. He did have somewhere to be, after all. 

He started bracing himself, building up those layers that he’d been relying on for a good while.

Crowley hadn't really noticed that he’d started walking. He hadn't really noticed that he ridiculous but era appropriate hat was reversed (he fixed it), or that his hair was a mess (quick miracle for that), or that he’d forgotten to magically obscure his eyes for humans, just in case his glasses slipped. But he had. He shook his head, trying to awaken his throughs, drag his brain back into functionality.

He closed his eyes. Took a breath. And he stepped, solemnly, into St James Park. He had a job to do. A solution to procure. A lie to sell. 

He miracled a piece of bread into his hands and tossed bits at ducks, waiting for that sensation to wash over him, waiting for that feeling of buttery pie crusts and meringue and heavy paper and depth and curiosity and idleness and softness to fill his senses.

And it did, soon enough, as the angel appeared by his side.

He began, quickly. He wasn't sure how long he could keep this up, how long he could try and act like Crowley that Aziraphale thought he knew. 

“Look. I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong? We have a lot in common, you and I.” 

The angel seemed to almost scoff a little. “I don’t know. We both started as angels, but you,” his voice gained a touch of superiority, “are fallen.” It was the tone Crowley knew the angel was supposed to take if the occasion ever did arise that he had to commune with a demon.

“I didn't really fall,” The demon said softly, his mind already beginning to spiral as he thought of what he’d rationalized, “I just, you know, sauntered vaguely downward.” The old Crowley, the Crowley Aziraphale knew, would have smiled as he said that. It was his old line. He pushed through it. “I need a favour.”

“We already have the arrangement, Crowley. Stay out of each other's way, lend a hand when needed.” 

Crowley wanted to roll his eyes. He knew what the bloody arrangement was. He bit back a response.

“This is for something else. For if it all goes pear shaped.”

“I like pears.” Remarked the angel.

“If it all goes wrong,” the demon pushed on, “I need insurance.”

“What?” The angel asked exasperatedly. 

The demon pushed a piece of paper, the paper, into his hands hurriedly. 

“I wrote it down. Water has ears. Well, not water. Trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears?” He was beginning to ramble, awkwardness and paranoia and anxiety melding together, and he was almost grateful when the angel cut him off.

“Out of the question.”

“Why not?”

The angels face seemed to melt, and then get put back together again. Crowley was facing him, but was oh-so-grateful for his eyeglasses, the only thing between him and the angel’s gaze.

“It would destroy you,” the angel said, his voice soft yet firm, “I am not bringing you a suicide pill.”

“Not what I want it for. Just insurance.” The half truth burned on his tongue.

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I would be in if they knew I’d been fraternizing? It’s completely out of the question.” 

Something in Crowley shifted. It was like something in his chest flipped on, not the usual feeling he got when he was with Aziraphale, but a darker sensation. His voice was loaded with venom, and hurt, as he spoke.

“Fraternizing?” 

Because if that was all it was to the angel, fraternizing, then there really was not point. Than it really was just him and the darkness and the mirror and he’d rather just be done. Because the angel was the single hanging light bulb in a dark room, he was the antidote that somehow made it all bearable, just being around him was like being deliciously, wonderfully, high. 

“Well, whatever you want to call it.” The angel said hurriedly. “I do not think there is a point to discuss it further.”

The demon’s eyes flashed from behind his shades. “I have other people to fraternize with, angel.”

“Oh, of course you do.”

“I don't need you.” The demon loaded the words with as much venom as he could.

“And the feeling is mutual. Obviously.” The angel said, the usual soft undertone in his voice gone, replaced with something hard and cold. He vanished.

The demon stood alone in the park. “Obviously.” He whispered, half mocking. 

Because in that moment, it was the end of all things, and just there, by a bloody duck pond, the darkness had never felt more real, twisting and churning and reminding, and when it whispered in his ear, the rational part forgot to whisper back.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the short chapter. I promise theres a longer one coming up soon. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy!

Aziraphale was worried about Crowley. Well, not worried. He couldn’t be worried because being worried for someone means you have to care for them, and he did not care for Crowley. 

He was mildly concerned. Like a coworker would be. 

And like any mildly concerned coworker, he decided to keep an eye on Crowley. Make sure the demon didn’t do anything stupid. That was from a practical standpoint, to be clear. To ensure the arrangement was still together even after everything that they said (everything he said). 

There was a small, slightly, well, greasy, cafe on the corner of the street of Crowley’s flatblock. From a certain table and a slightly oriented chair, he could easily see the building entrance. Azirapahle started sitting there most afternoons. He’d order the same thing (he’d found that their pasties, which was something like pie crust folded over and loaded with mashed potatoes, vegetable, and gravy, weren’t half bad) and he’d wait for Crowley to leave. 

And then he’d follow him. 

It wasn’t stalkerish or creepy or evening caring. It was like concern. He wanted to make sure Crowley didn’t do anything stupid. Rob a cured for holy water and all that. Make a bad choice and end up with a knife in his gut and loads of hellish paperwork. 

Like this one time, the demon started taking a shortcut down a truly, we, dodgy alley, and Aziraphale could already feel in his very being that something was wrong, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t okay, and he focused on that feeling, trying to pinpoint it and find it and stop it. It was a small gang, waiting to rob passerby’s. Azirapahle knocked them out with a snap of his fingers before Crowley was anywhere nearby. 

It went like that for a while. 

Aziraphale was glad that Crowley didn’t know. His eyes would flash and those pupils would dilate and he’d hiss “I don’t need a bloody guardian angel, Aziraphale.” 

And Aziraphale kind of knew that he couldn’t stand another fight. 

Even when Uriel would send missions, Azirapahle would still do them, of course, he’d still honor his duty and follow heaven and perform a miracle or bless a child or all that. But he’d get over them quickly and return back to his perch at the cafe. Or he’d put them on the back burner if Crowley was up to something particularly reckless. 

He knew he had a bookshop to attend to, angelic responsibilities to pursue, hopeful shoppers to ward off, all that, and he’d go back to all those things, he really would. But right now his mind was elsewhere. 

Because when he’d last spoken to Crowley, something had been off. Not just in the way they argued, but in how he’d acted. Sure, he almost seemed to be his normal self, armed with snarky wit and a casual drawl that Aziraphale could recognize from across the city, but something wasn't right. His words were careful, his reactions severe, it was strange. 

Aziraphale had been up to a lot of heavenly deeds over the last few centuries. He’d seen the world. He’d ridden camels across desserts (never again), take ships across oceans, seen gold mines, watched operas, started a spark that would one day become Sydney, he’d even been a pirate once (who only pirated from other pirates, of course.) But he’d always wander back to Crowley.

Sometimes, when he’d had had long days and nights that seemed longer still, he’d think about that simple magnetism. About the careful dance of what was supposed to be rivalry turned to well, friendship, (fraternization, he remembered), but no friendship didn’t cover it. Friendship was a word stitched onto throw pillows and loved by fifth grade teachers. Friendship was too simple a word to possibly apply. 

And however he tried to justify his feelings (because mildly concerned coworker, my ass) he knew that he couldn't lose Crowley. 

That was a fact. Hard, cold, and undeniable. 

And it was oh-so-frustrating caring for Crowley, because Crowley was so himself all of the time. And he was reckless, so bloody reckless. Aziraphale could count the number of times he’d been discorporated on one hand. Crowley would need to resort to counting the feathers on his wings. And for all that honesty and self expression, he was so closed off. It was ridiculous. He could always tell he was holding something back, leaving words unsaid, curling back into himself mid conversation, covering with snark instead. 

Sometimes, the angel wanted to grab the demon by the shoulders, like him in the eyes (sans the shades) and say “just tell me already. You can tell me anything, Crowley. Anything.” 

The other option was to shake the demon senseless, like they’d do in films, but that could hurt him and Aziraphale couldn’t have that. 

He’d been thinking a lot recently about his life. About his space on this Earth, his space in Heaven. He had always adored attending religious services- even before the death of Christ and foundation of the religion that was the most dependent on the whole heaven-hell-Armageddon-great plan thing, but it was always so beautiful to him, seeing the ways that he impacted the lives of humans. It kept up the faith, you know? Seeing all those different versions of the almighty displayed through different places of worship. 

But more recently he’d been withdrawing from services. People seemed to be using the almighty more and more to push their own agenda. Every time he heard a pastor use the word of god to promote hate he’d close his eyes, think of the arrangement, and curse the pastor ever-so-slightly. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. 

At the same time, though, he could relate so much to all of the humans who tried so hard to draw conclusions from god’s words. It was a little frustrating how many people decided the Almighty was a man, but even beyond that, so many people were trying so hard to interpret the great plan, to put a date on the end of the word, so understand what tips the eternal scale of souls that dictates whether you are heaven or hell bound. 

He understood all the questions. Even some of the doubt. 

But that he would lie about, for sure, because it was asking questions like those that separates a demon and an angel. 

And the thing that Aziraphale feared most was that separation was a finer line then he’d ever realized.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! I am so so sorry that this update took so long, but it's a good one, and it's a lil longer than usual :) Hopefully, I'll be quicker with the next chapter. I hope you enjoy, and please leave me feedback. Seriously. I'm writing this for you guys, so anything you have to say is so appreciated and valued, and you'll see it reflected in future chapters.

Despite a few bumps in the early 1900’s, Crowley had really come into his own. The 20’s had been an absolute blast. Even the Americas were fun- humans coming up with something called gangs, murders of passion, urbanization, fedoras, jazz, the whole deal. It was wonderful. Besides, the new need for advertising led to Crowley having quite a bit of demonic fun. (Add to list of Crowley’s Vaguely Demonic Achievements: Putting Cocaine In Literally Everything.) 

And yes, The Great War (if only the humans knew) was a bit dreary. Crowley could feel some of that darkness again. But he’d ignore that. Besides, something felt different recently. Like there was always something light neat him, balancing it out a bit. 

For a little bit (a decade) Crowley had learned quite a bit about the human ritual of self mediating (cue Crowley putting cocaine into practically every American product possible). That had kind of helped too. What really helped was that he could sober up instantly. No hangover (apparently, the dredge of human existence.) 

But now, he was back to having fun. World War Two was in full swing, and yes, there was murder and death and dictators but Crowley was used to all that. It was like just a drop of hell had gotten mixed into the air, really, combined with classic human stupidity and dramatics. He knew there was great evils going on out of London, genocide and torture and mass murder. 

But Crowley also knew two things: The first being that hell was happier than ever, and any interference on his part would lead to apricuarly hellish punishment. The second was that he knew exactly where those murderers were headed. 

He also knew who was looking after the innocent, and for all he disliked about heaven, it was comforting to know that they wouldn't have to deal with Beezlebub for eternity. 

And anyways, he’d found a very fun way to be both very useful and very irritating to Nazis. He was helping a London Spy Ring. 

This is how it would go: He would talk to one of his anti-nazi contacts. Then, he would talk to one of the desperetly aspriational nazi recruits. Then, he would tell them both information that was about 75% correct and watch them go. It was oh so entertaining. 

From what he could tell, the Nazis were attempting to gather materials of religious supernatural origins (that could be a movie, he thought lazily,) as well as books of prophecy.

The local “Punch A Nazi!” recruits (young men, and women, who had failed to get into the military,) were under the impression that the nazis were raiding pet shelters in order to create an army of vicious, blood thirsty, animals which would be unleashed upon London. They’d posted guards at every pound, shelter, and zoo. 

The Nazis were under the impression that the Punch A Nazi! recruits were attempting to secure hounds in order to have them trained to sniff out and find supernatural artifacts before the nazis could get there.

This resulted in the Nazis spying on local vigilantees rather than seeking out artefacts, and the local vigilantees guarding posts that had no point whatsoever rather than seeking out Nazi occupants in London. 

It was bloody hilarious. Crowley had been spending the last week building up a plot in which he could actually convince the nazis to storm a pet store to find “Ze Diamond Collar of Cleopat-rah.” That last bit was true. The collar had once belonged to a poodle by that exact name. 

It was honestly the most demonic Crowley had ever felt, if you didn't count the time that he’d built a horse stable inside a politicians office. 

He was settling down for the night when he flipped on his radio to listen to how his spies were getting on when he heard it.

“Operation Bookkeeper is on.”

Bookkeeper? What was this shit? How’d they come up with these ridiculous operation names? He chuckled as he poured himself something from the first bottle he came into contact with. He decided he need more details. 

He looked at the scrawled writing on the notepad he kept by his radio, tracking all of the very changing codenames. (He told them that, for safety's sake, their radio hail names had to change biweekly.) 

“Hailing Deviant Blue” He said. They didn't even use proper radio hailing format. Just what they’d heard on the telly. It was bloody hilarious, really. 

“This is Serpent 001. Current mission status report.” He rolled his eyes at the codename. They all knew him as Mr. Crowley, really. There had to be SOME consistency.

“Mission on track. Bookkeeper is enroute.” The man chuckled through the radio. 

“Bookkeeper?”

The man’s voice cackled through the radio in strange waves. A groan dissected by the interference of bombs or other radios or just good old fashioned distance. 

“We discussed this yesterday.” 

Crowley remained silent. 

“It’s of the utmost importance. Direct orders from the Fuhrer!”

“And?” Crowley asked, trying to remain both patient and confident. He’d been drifting off at their meetings recently. 

To clarify. Neither of these groups worked for him. He was just a consultant. Kept it fun and guilt-free. 

But it did make the morning meetings a bit, er, dreary. Theres only so many cloak-and-dagger nazi meetings one can attend. 

“We have a bookkeeper enroute. Seems to believe he’s turning us into the British forces.” The man clicked his tongue. “He’s running late.”

“Ah, yes.”

The radio cackled. Crowley assumed it was an evil german chuckle distorted by the world. “Yes. An idiot. All is going to plan. Don’t know why you're so interested- I didn't know you consulted on this one.” 

“Just curious.” But Crowley’s mind was turning. “A bookkeeper, eh? You got the sod’s name?” 

“Ah yes. It is a, er, Mr. Fell.”

Crowley turned off his radio and miracled himself into his Bentley and pulled out of his usual spot as quickly as possible. “Direct orders from the Fuhrer,” he said mockingly. Stupid Hitler. Always ruining everything. And usually, when he’d hear about some idiot walking into what is clearly a Nazi trap, he’d let them. Because come on. Dealing books in a bloody church?

But Crowley went anyways. Because yes, there was an idiot about to deal books in Nazis in a church, but it was his idiot. 

___________________

Aziraphale was feeling mildly proud of himself as he stepped into the church, a feeling that he fought to hold on to as he entered the dark aisle, the only light being dozens upon dozens of candles. It was almost eerie. 

He removed his hat. He may be conducting human business, but he was still an angel, and no self-respecting or god-fearing angel (or human, for that matter) would ever wear a hat in church. 

He adjusted his hat and walked confidently down the pews, his eyes on the two men he was there to meet, both lounging in seats, surrounded by that gentle candle-lit glow. 

Nazis. Despicable creatures, really. Certainly hellbound. 

And today, today Aziraphale was going to foil some of their Earthly plans. It wasn't the sort of foiling that’d get him a heavenly commendation, but it was the kind of foiling that was effective and angelic. 

He greeted the men carefully, trying not to show his glee for the big reveal to come. He felt like he was in one of those Agatha Christie novels. 

“Mr. Fell.” The man said dryly in response. “You are late.” He clipped his pocket watch closed. “But not to worry.” He made a weak attempt at a smile. 

The other man, this one tall, thin, self-assured. Very of-era German, rose from his chair. “You have the books for the Fuhrer?”

“Yes, I do.” Aziraphale answered calmly. He placed his stack on the table. “Books of prophecy.” He felt nervous. And as all (none) angels do when they are nervous, he began to recite authors. At least in this scenario it was helpful. He stopped and tried to finish his sentence. “First editions. As requested.” He cleared his throat.

“And what about the other book?” Said the tall (clearly more irritating) German. “We told you to bring us? The Fuhrer was most definite that he needs it. It has the prophecies that are true. With a true prophecy book the war,” The man seemed to try and laugh, sneer, and smile all at once. It didn't work. “Is as good as won.”

Clearly the man had some, er, shortcomings when it came to his understanding of destiny and the actual workings of prophecy, but Aziraphale pushed through, reverting back to fact.

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.” He said. “I’m afraid that is the holy grail of prophetic books.”

The other German, the sitting one, spoke up. “The Fuhrer also want the holy grail. And the spear of destiny, should you come across it.”

The tall (irritating) German started up again. “Why are there no copies of Agnes Nutter’s book? We have made it very clear that money is no object, you will be a very rich man.”

“Well, the unsold copies of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies were destroyed by the publisher. Which is, well, all of them. It never sold a single copy. But, I found a publishers catalogue for 1655, and it does list one of Agnes Nutter’s Prophecies.”

“What was it?”

“Her prophecy for 1972. Do not buy Peter Max.”

“Who is,” the sitting German asked, “Peter Max?”

“I have no idea.” The angel intoned. 

“I will pass it on to the Fuhrer.”

The sitting man started up again. “These volumes of prophecy will be in berlin by the end of the week. The fuhrer will be most grateful.”

“You have been exceedingly helpful,” the irritating one leered slightly, “Mr. Fell.”

The sitting man was no longer the sitting man, as he stood up, pulling a gun from his coat. “Such a pity that you must be eliminated.” He almost smiled sympathetically. “But take heart. Just another death in the blitz.”

“Oh, that's not very sporting.”

“You do not appear worried, my friend.” The no-longer sitting Nazi approached him slowly.

And Aziraphale smiled as his big plan unveiled itself with the click of a gun. Behind him, a woman stepped out from the pews.

“He’s not worried.”

“Who is she?”

“She, my double-dealing Nazi aquatience, is the reaosn why none of those books are going back to Berlin!” He spoke almost gleefully. 

This was the great reveal at the end of every mystery, the great plot twist where the detective stands in the living room and points out all the evidence, and the murderer is hauled away, shouting some nonsense about how they would’ve gotten away with it too if it wasn't for the brave daring detective, or the inquisitive maid, or the slightly-sultry but genius parlor dancer. 

“And why your nasty little spy ring will be spending the rest of the war behind bars,” He continued, riding this monologue like a high (though he wouldn't know what that felt like.) “Let me introduce you, to Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military intelligence.”

“Thank you for the introduction,” The woman said, walking up next to Aziraphale. He was beaming. This was it. This was when he foiled their plans. They’d say their line (We would've gotten away with it too if it wasn't for that genius, blond bookkeeper) soon enough and he’d feel properly angelic for the next year.

“Our side knew all about you two,” He began. It was nice to have a side other than Heaven for once. “She recruited me. To work for you. And now she’s going to tell you that this building is surrounded by british agents, and that you two have been,” he paused, “what is that lovely American expression?” He smiled. He knew the expression. It was a favorite of Crowley’s in recent years. “Played for suckers.” 

“Yes but-” Montgomery began. 

“Everyone!” Aziraphale shouted. “Come on! Round them up!” 

No one came. The church doors remained undramatically closed, the windows not shattered by agents crashing through their frames. 

“Rose?” He asked nervously. “Where exactly are your people?”

The tall German began to laugh because Aziraphale was right, he was the irritating one. “We are all here.”

The no-longer sitting man put his hands down and grinned. “Allow me to introduce Frauline Greta-” But Aziraphale was no longer listening but Rose-not-Rose was point a gun, a GUN, at his face. He gasped a little, moving away.

“She works with us.”

Aziraphale gasped, enraged. He was betrayed? Played? 

The no-longer sitting german smiled at Not-Rose. “You fooled the shithead bookseller. Good job, darling.” He said in careless German. Aziraphale gritted his teeth. He’d been practicing his germna, but this was not the way he wanted to use it. 

Not-Rose smiled back. “It wasn't hard, darling.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Unwillingly, a mocking tone in his brain said ugh, heterosexuals. 

She turned to face him. “He’s very gullible.” She said with a sickening smile.

The irritating German leered. “Played for a Sucker. I must remember that. I am played for a sucker you are played for a sucker, he, she it.” He laughed. “We’ll be played for a sucker,” he continued.

“Now, where were we?” asked the no-longer-sitting German. “Oh yes,” he smiled. “Killing you.”

“You can't kill me!” The angel protested. “There’ll be paperwork!”

And finally, the doors did indeed dramatically shift. And then, less dramatically, came little gasps of pain. 

A figure (yes, he was indeed wearing a hat) was hopping it’s way down the aisle. A smile came unbidden to Aziraphale’s face. Crowley. 

“Sorry,” The demon began, “Consecrated ground.” Aw, it’s like being on a beach on bare feet.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed aggressively, because though that smile had indeed come to his face a new scenario was forming in his head. A properly demonic one. 

“Stopping you from getting into trouble,” The demon said, still hopping up and down like a mad man.

“I should've known,” The angel began, the scenario spilling out. “Of course. These people are working for you.”

“No! They’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running aorund London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn't want to see you embarrassed.”

Crowley didn't say the subtext which was: I’m here because I couldn't let you die.

The not-sitting Nazi spoke confidently. “Mr. Anthony J Crowley. Your fame precedes you.” 

“Anthony?” Aziraphale questioned, focusing on what was truly important here.

“You don't like it?

 

“No, no. I didn't say that. I’ll get used to it.” 

“The famous Mr. Crowley,” said Not-Rose. “Such a pity you must both die.”

Crowley tipped his hat. 

Aziraphale ignored the death threat. He suddenly felt like not much could scare him now. “What’s the J stand for?” He asked.

The demon made one of those strange faces that really only a demon could make. “It’s uh, ngh, just a J, really.” 

His eyes were pulled to something just beyond nagel, and his voice shifted. “Look at that. A whole vat full of holy water. There's not even a guard!”

“Enough babbling. Kill them both.” 

“The demon focused back on the nazi situation. “In about a minute, a german bomber will release a bomb that will land right here. If you run away, very, very fast, you might not die. You won't enjoy dying. Definitely won't enjoy what comes after.”

“You expect us to believe that? The bombs tonight will fall on the east end.”

“Yes. It would take a last minute demonic intervention to throw them of course. Yes.” He rolled his eyes at the Nazis. “You're all wasting your valuable running away time! And if in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here,” he continued, “It would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”

“A real miracle.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Kill them. They’re very irritating.”

But then, as promised, came the sweetest sounds Aziraphale could've heard at the moment, a sound that usually filled him with any mix of fear and hatred and concern but now was as sweet as the voice of Oscar Wilde. The whistle of a shell, falling from the sky, hurtling to Earth.

The nazis looked up, and Aziraphale couldn't help but enjoy himself, just a tad, as he watched them realize their fate, It was not an angelic feeling. But it was there. 

The shell hit the roof, and around him, Aziraphale could feel the place of God tearing apart, crumbling, falling to pieces, windows shattering and compressing all at once. He closed his eyes.

And then, there was silence. Silence and ashes and dust.

Aziraphale took his hat back off. Respect for the dead. Not the three dead nazis somewhere near him now, but the death of a place of worship. 

Crowley had still somehow found a way to lean on something as he cleaned off his glasses. 

“That was very kind of you.” The angel said.

“Shut up,” The demon drawled as he put his shades back on.

“Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start.” He tried to joke a little, take away the heaviness of his words.

They stood in silence for a moment, though not real silence, as voices and bomb sirens and all things else still raged in the background, but silence between the two of them. And then Aziraphle remembered.

“Oh the books!” He cried. “Oh, I forgot all the books. Oh they’ll all be blown to-”

He looked up as Crowley held up the leather bag, books still neatly inside. He didnt even really noticed that he pulled them out of the dead hand of a nazi. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own.”Crowley said simply. “Lift home?” He asked casually, and began to walk out of the wreckage.

And in that moment, many things happened all at once, like feelings and words and thoughts had just collided within Aziraphale as he gazed at the bag and that’s when he realized. 

He realized why he felt so fearless around the demon, why he adored his aura, why he made Crowley a cup of cocoa everyday when he was asleep, hoping that maybe that would be the day that he could finally wake him up, why his heart felt like it skipped a beat ever so often when he saw him standing in St. James, why he sat at that cafe for hours and hours and days at a time.

He was in love with Crowley.

That was the feeling, the gentle, tugging feeling that he wanted to wrap around himself like a blanket. 

He loved Crowley. 

He loved, and wanted, and cared for, Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley.

If there was music that could have swelled, it would've, right then and right there. 

And standing there, in the shattered remains of a church, Aziraphale had never felt more complete.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter- sorry- but I think you'll enjoy! It's a bit of a look into post-church Aziraphale and Crowley's mindsets. Please comment- seriously, I adore every piece of feedback that I get.

Aziraphale had been avoiding him. It was obnoxious. Crowley knew that he was probably just embarrassed after the whole church-thing. Or maybe he felt bad for destroying a place of God. Or maybe, he considered, like most angels, Aziraphale was good at holding a grudge, and he hadn't forgotten their argument.

When he’d given him a lift home, the angel asked to be dropped off after only two blocks, and sat in silence. He seemed shocked by something. 

Maybe, the demon reckoned, he was just surprised that Crowley had killed people for him. Even if it was a technicality, he had. He had buried three Nazis under a pile of rubble for the angel.

He didn’t regret it. He loved being around Aziraphale, even if it was for a brief life-or-death sort of interaction. 

Honestly, he rather enjoyed this whole knight-in-shining armour status over the years. It was fun. 

And besides. Who’d turn down an opportunity to heroically save their crush from mild pain and severe paperwork? 

Crush. That was a word he’d learned more recently. It didn’t quite seem to occupy that feeling, the properly fill that space in his chest. It didn’t do those feelings justice. 

He couldn’t think of words strong enough to express.

That might be a good thing in the long run. Sure, he’d known about his feelings since Rime, but he knew they’d always been there. Part of him knew they always would. But the other part, the cleverer more demonic part, the logical part, told him to forget the angel. 

You’re wasting your time, the voice whispered, curling around his insides like a serpent, because he’s an angel. You’re a demon. You couldn’t have really thought that he’d ever feel the same way, right? Really, did you? This is childish. Forget him.

Crowley had tried. Quite a bit, really. 

For a while he stuck to human methods- things you sipped, snorted, swallowed, smoked, but after a few decades it got dull. Sure, he’d still get drunk on a semi (very) regular basis but it was never as effective as he wanted it to be.

Maybe it was something about not being human that rendered certain substances less effective, but it was almost like there was constantly something just slightly tethering him to reality. Maybe it was hell, not letting him drift too far. 

Some nights, he’d miracle himself somewhere outside of London where the light pollution stopped and the darkness was complete and he’d look at the stars. It put things in perspective. 

He’d close his eyes and try to remember hanging them. He knew he had when he was still an angel. He’d enjoyed it, seeing the gleaming things dangle from his fingertips. He remembered the feeling of it, the glowing, hopeful, sensation that was left ringing in your ears after you’d touched one. 

He remembered heaven in the same way- just a feeling. Though nothing about that place was hopeful or sweet or gentle. Heaven was cold and strict and elitist. 

But still. They both had that sensation. Physical memories beyond the events leading up to the fall just slightly out of reach. It was infuriating. He was a demonic entity who had existed for nearly 6000 years. He could remember before humans even knew they existed. He should be able to remember his life. 

But even nights like those, night where he gazed at the stars and questioned reality, were rare. He’d had a lot of human experiences. He’d even had sex once. He hated the idea of being all pure and good and angelic. He’d found a blond-blue-eyed bloke at a bar, who, he justified, was not at all a stand in, and the experience hadn't really been unpleasant. He just, well, didn’t particularly even enjoy the idea of sex. It seemed so, well, below him (if you'd pardon the innuendo). It just wasn’t something he was particularly interested in. There were other ways to have a relationship.

And despite all that- despite a decade spent indoors contemplating the universe, another two or three spent in a high, despite engaging in whatever human activity that was supposed to take his mind off Aziraphale, it never really lasted. 

Today was particularly poor. He was having his usual drink in his apartment, gazing lazily at his ever growing collection of houseplants. 

Maybe, he thought, maybe this while Aziraphale thing is punishment. For falling. Maybe Crowley’s feelings for him was just the Almighty flexing her muscles a tad, reminding him that no matter how much he may come to enjoy the word she created, that he is still fallen. He is still a demon, the scourge of the earth, the nightmares of children and the idols to the worst of the worst. 

Crowley knew that when he thought like this, when that voice did more than whisper, when the darkness started up it’s old patterns, that it was time to sober up. 

He didn’t though. Somehow the idea of facing all this sober made him want to walk in front of a train. It wouldn’t kill him, but it’s hurt like hell. And the paperwork. 

So he didn’t do any of those things. He just sat on his cold marble floor with a slowly depleting quantity of some variety of gin. 

It was just one of those days. 

—————

Since the church revelation (not the type heaven would talk about, but the one that was on Aziraphale’s mind constantly) he’d been, well, distant. 

He stopped tailing Crowley, for one. He could manage himself. He left the bookshop less. A lot of miracles could simply be done from where he sat with a flick of his fingers. 

He meant well, really, but he didn’t want to risk seeing Crowley. He was terrified of being summoned to Heaven, of having Gabriel and Micheal and all the other archangels expose him. He was terrified of falling, because certainly, falling for a demon is a damnable offence. 

And he wouldn’t even address the thing that most bothered him, because if he addressed it, addressed the fact that the worst part was that he knew Crowley wouldn’t love him back, because he was a ridiculous angel still so caught up with obeying and caring and who constantly needed rescuing for stupid scam, and Crowley couldn’t ever love that. 

Besides. He doubted demons were capable of love.

And so he ignored it. He tried to at least. 

It was easier just to avoid the demon. It was what heaven had ordered him to do, anyways. 

But even knowing that, he knew avoidance would only last so long.

This, he had started to realize, was a deeply Shakespearean situation. Love forbidden by a biblical nature, an intellectual who falls for the bad boy, unrecruited adoration, and homoerotic subtext, with a few supernatural characters thrown in. 

Aziraphale had always been a fan but come on. This was extreme. 

He remembered what Crowley had said that day in the theatre, something about the funny ones being better.

This was not a Shakespearean comedy, Aziraphale was certain of that. This was one of those tragedies where everyone eventually dies (thanks Armegedon) and the lovers never get together. 

Maybe this was a test. A demonic temptation.

But Aziraphale knew that was almost impossible too. He’d known Crowley for ages. Since nearly the beginning of time itself. It would, in no world, take a demon of that level of confidence 6000 years to make a move, 6000 years to try a temptation.

Crowley wouldn't be that patient. 

And perhaps this was a Shakespherean tragedy, and the Almighty was pushing all the pieces in just the right direction, setting the stage for the drama and the endeavours that were sure to come, a performance for an audience made up of the ever so ignorant players. 

Aziraphale didn't know what it was. But he did know that when he felt the demon near him, he didn't get ghastly shivers down his spine, and didn't cringe at the animalistic marks of hell, he didn't get that feeling that announced something evil and foul was afoot. No, when he was around Crowley, he felt soft. He felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, always on his toes but never appalled. Somehow, he felt safer sharing a dinner with Crowley then he did when Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder for a job well done. Crowley felt like, well, home. Not in a heavenly way, but in a comfortable way. A secure way. A gentle, loving way. 

It was ridiculous. And it would pass. It was, what was the human word, a little crush. The kind teenagers get. It made sense, Aziraphale rationalized, that he might one day feel something for the demon, as they had spent so much time together. Shared experiences and all that. It was inevitable, that maybe he’d be a little lonely, and he’d think of the demon. That’s all this was. Right?

Aziraphale had always made a point of honesty, whenever possible. Lying was a sin afterall.

So it was strange that he was so disappointed that he couldn't even lie properly to himself.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SO SO Sorry for the long wait. I have a million excuses but I'll save 'em so you can get on with the chapter. i hope you enjoy, dear readers.

Crowley was having fun. Real, true fun for the first time since the whole saving-Aziraphale-at-the-church thing. There was a short sequence of events that had immediately followed the interaction at the church, a sequence that had gone like this:

1) Crowley waited for about three years for Aziraphale to reach out. That was their pattern- one initiates one interaction, the other initiates the next. Sure, Crowley had kind of broken that pattern by arriving at the Church (he’d called the meeting at the pond, so it has technically been Aziraphale’s turn to summon the demon. And technically Aziraphale had, in a way, initiated the meeting in France by being utterly and completely stupid.)

2) After exactly three years and six months, Crowley shifted his focus to the OTHER thing he’d learned at the church- that most churches had left their holy water very much unguarded. 

3) This information was left disregarded until one day, in 1962, a new type of film, one starring a Bristish secret agent with a cool car and even more intriguing motives was released in theatres. 

4) And all this- about twenty or so years of thought and planning, led to Crowley sitting in a slightly seedy bar (the perfect place for any demon) with a very in depth plan involving money being slid both over and under tables, back up plans, a shining black Bentley, and multiple hired buffoons, including one who was particularly interested in both a) witches and b) nipples. 

5) And by the end of this all, Crowley had gotten to another grand moment of rather dramatic fun, a moment in Soho with flickering lights and sunglasses and fancy cars and black suits and hushed voices.

He’d come to realize something about himself- something that Bond films and car chases dramatized over neon screens illuminating popcorn had made clear. He rather loved, well, being the hero. Not the hero seen in American comic books with patriotic colors and supernatural abilities (though those weren't half bad), but the kind of hero who is just a wee bit out of control. A dark figure with good intentions and problematic methods. He loved the dramatic entrances, the calculated gun fights with perfectly placed zingers and cunning remarks, villains dedicated to nothing but raising logical chaos. It was a wonderful world, but one left to Hollywood. Since the 40’s something had shifted- he began to consider that the ‘just a J”might stand for James (or Janthony, as the popular theory suggests), and that he too could be that heroic figure. The intriguing victor of both hearts and games. 

It was a nice fantasy. And now, well, at least he wasn't making the heist of the deadliest substance known to demonkind simple. It was his duty, a duty placed on his shoulders by years of movies of hopes, to make it as dramatic as possible. And the heist had turned out to be more entertaining than he’d expected- it’d become entangled with a secret army of supernatural intentions, bribery, and dramatic trips to the church of interest in which he’d simply stand and stare, dark suit, sunglasses, and all, dramatic as possible. 

And just when he thought the evening was done, as he walked away from one of the stranger conversations he’d had that week, sliding into his Bentley as always, he felt a presence.

An aura he knew well. 

It’d leave his car smelling like butterscotch and paper for a week.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley asked, his voice measured to contain the two elements that he was embarrassed of (element A being surprise, and element B being general undemonic giddiness.) 

“Needed a word with you.” The angel said, clearly anxious about something, his voice, too, measured to hide the exact same elements (though his had a touch of rebellion thrown in). 

“What?” The demon asked, no longer even trying to hide his surprise and/or confusion. 

“I work in Soho. I hear things.” The angel said, looking straight through the windshield, determined. Crowley took this as evidence as the angel’s clear growing dislike of him. Aziraphale was just trying not to make eye contact, (thank God for the stupid bloody sunglasses), because if he made eye contact he knew not what he might be tempted to do. And yet he turned to face the demon anyways. 

But fuck intentions, back to the dialouge.

“I hear,” Aziraphale continued, “that you're setting up a, a,” He paused, trying to find the words. (Aziraphale had most definitely not seen a Bond film) “caper.”

Crowley broke eye contact, knowing what was coming next.

“To rob a church.” The angel finished. 

The demon bit his lip, ready for the angelic rage that was sure to come. 

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous. Holy water won't just kill your body it will destroy you completely.”

Crowley wanted to groan. It may not be heaven born fury but it was still a lecture. And a caring one too. Those were the worst kind, right up there with that “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed,” bullshit that parents heaped on their kids. 

“You told me what you think. One-hundred-and-five years ago.” Crowley tried to emphasize the years, to stretch them out, to make sure the stretch of time that had truly felt like the longest century yet was properly highlighted.

The angel pushed forwards. “And I haven't changed my mind. I can't have you risking your life.”

And this, Crowley decided, this is why Aziraphale, despite his doubts and tempting, was a bloody angel. Because he was righteous and his righteousness came from a good, a stupidly good fucking place, despite anything else. Because Aziraphale made a decision and stuck to it. It was infuriating.

The angel looked to the floor. “Not even for something dangerous.”

And Crowley sat their, steaming, because it had been decades. Decades since he’d seen the angel, and he gets a lecture? And the one thing he’d been truly looking forward to in recent years, gets the heavenly boot?

“So,” Aziraphale said decidedly, pulling out a thermos with ever so gentle fingers, “you can call off the robbery.”

It was the second time this century that Crowley wished there was music that could swell. 

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap.” 

Crowley took the thermos carefully, his fingers brushing ever so slightly against the angel’s. He didn't want to admit to himself that he almost focused more on that then on the deadly weapon in his hands. 

“It’s the real thing?” He asked, shock creeping into his voice.

“The holiest.” The angel answered, as if he was announcing a death sentence. 

“After everything you said?”

In subtext, the demon whispered, after everything I said? After all the mistrust? Even after our argument?

The angel nodded. He felt like his voice was unable to properly function. 

In subtext, he whispered passionately, honestly, yes. I trust you. I forgive you. Can you forgive me? 

Crowley gazed at the thermos. Even the thermos seemed to be tartan, seemed to have Aziraphale’s name written all over it. 

“Should I say thank you?” The demon asked, trying to revert back into his usual self.

But even this had subtext, subtext that whispered “Thank you. Thank you for trusting me.”

The angel cleared his throat. “Better not.”

And the demon understood then how much it hurt the angel to give him this, to trust him with this, to trust him with the one thing capable of destroying himself. 

“Can I drop you anywhere?” The demon asked.

And this time the subtext was crying, screaming, saying how can I thank you? How can I show you I love you, and that moments like this are why?

“No. Thank you.”

And in undertones of khaki and tartan, this subtext too was crying, saying God, I wish. I wish I could. 

The angel smiled. “Well, don’t look so disappointed,” and the demon realized he did, because he’d stopped pretending, “perhaps one day we could.” The angel shrugged. “I don't know.” (but he did know.) “Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” 

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

And now the subtext was becoming less and less like subtext, because what they were both saying I love you. Let me love you. 

And Aziraphale smiled sadly. “You go to fast for me, Crowley,” and it was with that that his not-so-subtext said with regret: But I can’t.

And with that the angel stepped out into the street. 

Crowley sat alone in his Bentley, neon lights reflecting in his sunglasses, his head full of questions and feelings and things without a name.

He wished that here in life, there’d be a quick cut way. A few chords or bars of music, perhaps even a whole damn song, to reassure the audience, to reassure him for Christ’s sake, that everything was alright. That this story was not yet finished.

But this was Soho. And there are no such things in life.


	19. Chapter 19

Crowley adored the nineties.

Aziraphale, well... not so much.

To Crowley, the nineties were everything he adored about humanity. Stupid neon clothing and badly bleached hair, weird music and shitty sitcoms, chunky plastic bracelets and drugs, oh god, so many weird drugs. The mainstream music was shittier than ever (London had truly changed since the death of Freddie Mercury,) and so was general human sentiment. And somehow, above it all, tolerance was up. It was a glorious time to be a demon.

Aziraphale saw this, saw the demonic entity that was the nineties, and hated it. Though he largely adored anything that Crowley was infatuated with (from dramatic lyrics to eras to presenting as feminine with close fitting black gowns) this he could not get behind. 

The nineties were like a step back for humanity, communication swapped for strange devices that were apparently called phones (surely the idiots didn’t know what a real phone was, right? The type with a cord?), and classical music wasn’t played nearly often enough, and humans had gotten so strange. At least they hardly visited the bookshop. That was a plus.

And yet somehow, possibly out of a mix of intense boredom and morbid curiosity, he ended up at a small club, sipping wine at the bar. And maybe, just maybe, he was lonely.

And it was then that he saw him, a neon glow reflecting in his sunglasses, skin patterned by shadows and the little lights from the slowly spinning mirrored ball on the ceiling. 

Crowley was dressed in a new unusual manner- color palate as dark as usual, but the attire itself had changed. He wore a low cut loose fitting black shirt with puffed sleeves, something slightly reminiscent of their pirate days (to be discussed) and tight fitting black pants. Under the shirt he wore a second shirt (because would a demon ever just do one layer?), he wore a sheer, almost fishnet-style top. 

Aziraphale looked away, wishing away the blush that was tinting his cheeks, but there was a shift in the air, a shift in an aura, and Aziraphale knew the demon had seen him.

“Aziraphale!’ The demon called as he leaned on the bar. It was a practiced lean. A lean that looked so casual that was still careful and measured and predetermined. 

“Now what brings you to a place like this?”

Aziraphale was still distracted by the demon’s outfit. He was taller than usual, the nagel had determined. Why was he taller?

A quick glance down confirmed two things, the first being that the demon was wearing a pair of sturdy black heels ,and the second being that those pants really were, er, tight. Aziraphale tried to magic away the blush coming back to his cheeks. 

“Wine,” he tried to answer.

“What’s that?” Crowley asked, leaning closer, trying to hear over the music and the people. He said something to the barmaid (that’s what they’re still called, right?) and pulled up a stool next to Aziraphale.

“Wine!” The angel half-shouted. “I’m here for wine!”

The demon frowned just slightly and snapped his fingers. The music lowered, but none of the humans seemed to notice. It felt like the two were surrounded by a warm bubble, a bubble of just their auras, together, nothing else. The world behind them filtered away. 

“Wine, huh?” The demon said with a smile. “I’m surprised you braved the music.”

Aziraphale quickly drank the rest of his glass, tilting his head back like they did in shakespearean dramas. 

He was tempted to say something flirty. He was a little drunk, after all. And the demon looked like that. Instead he refilled his glass. 

“So what brings you here?” He asked the redhead. 

“The usual.” He elbowed the angel playfully while raising an eyebrow. “Sin. Tempptation.” He drew out the last word. He too, was a little drunk. A little confident. 

“Oh. Well I didn't mean to interfere with the work.” Aziraphale said quickly, starting to get to his feet. The demon put a hand on his arm.

“I was joking, angel. Please don’t leave on my account.” Crowley rushed his words. He didn't want Aziraphale to leave. For some reason that felt like it’d be the worst thing in the world. 

Crowley’d been thinking about those feelings recently. It couldn’t be love, right? Because falling in love could only happen when the other person felt the same way. It was affection, a weakness, an appreciation for the angel. Maybe it wasn't love. But it was something. 

Aziraphale sat back down, something in his chest feeling light and right because Crowley wanted him there. “Alright. If you insist.” 

They sat in silence for a moment until a certain tune cut through the bubble between them. Crowley smiled. Aziraphale looked confused.

Crowley mouthed along to the first line. “Sometimes I feel I’ve got to-”  
DUN DUN, when the background- “Run away, I’ve got to-” DUN DUN when the background again, “Get away-” He stopped midline, looking at the angel’s face.

“Oh, Aziraphale. You really don’t know this one?” 

The angel shook his head. “It’s not jazz, is it? I hear thats the new thing.”

(in the background, new lyrics boomed Once I ran to yoouu, now I run from yoouu)

Crowley wanted to groan. The angel was always about a century behind most pop culture. He’d recently discovered windshield wipers (first coined in 1910,) when he’d seen Crowley use them on the bentley last week. 

“No, Angel. It’s not jazz.” 

He paused, and sure, maybe he was just drunk or bored or leading with whatever part of him it was like liked Aziraphale, but he pulled off his glasses. “Come on, Angel. Let’s dance.”

“Dance?”

“Yes. Dance.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and gently pulled him off the bar stool. 

“Crowley,” The blond whispered, “I only know the gavotte.”

“And I can’t dance at all. It doesn't matter. Neither can the humans.”

And Aziraphale’s feet hit the floor with the beat (BA-DUM-DUM) as he slid hesitantly off his seat. “Fine. Just once.”

“That’s the spirit!”

The two made their way onto the neon-lit floor. Crowley noticed that Aziraphale’s hair glittered with purple light. 

(Oh, Tainted Love, Tainted Love)

Crowley held out a hand for the angel. He took it, hesitantly. Aziraphale’s pinky ring felt cool to the touch as their fingers intertwined. Crowley didn't make eye contact. He wanted to pretend this little bit of contact meant nothing to him. 

The two started swaying along to the music. 

(Now I know I’ve got to run away I’ve got to)

The two stepped a little closer. Aziraphale tried not to step on the demon’s toes. He tried to ignore the proximity between the two. If he wanted, really wanted, it’d take no effort to just lean in. 

(Get Away)

And Aziraphale felt himself feeling these lyrics (was this ragtime? beebop?) because he was afraid that he was going to do something. Close that gap. Say something. 

(You don’t really want it any more from me)

The demon held out his hand, pushing the angel away from him. “Spin,” he ordered, but it wasn't an order really. It was like a suggestion, but not. The angel couldn't describe it. 

(To make things right)

“Spin?” 

(You need someone to hold you tight)

The demon motioned to a couple behind them. The woman spun under her partner’s arm. 

(You think love is to pray)

Aziraphale spun, feeling his feet almost tripping over one another, trying to remain a safe distance from Crowley, trying to ignore the fact that he was wrapped in his aura, like it was all that there was in the world. He giggled, because yes, he was drunk, and yes, all this spinning made him feel ridiculous. Like a child. 

And that's when it happened. He slipped, his foot finally meeting the other, and just as he was certain to be getting a very rapid introduction to the grimy floor of the club, a hand grabbed his waist. 

Crowley had caught him, just in the nick of time, one arm around his waist, the other supporting his shoulder. And maybe it was the wine or the slight shock of a near fall, but Aziraphale looked at him. Really looked.

His eyes somehow still glowed despite the neon lit club. His hair, which had been done up in a curly bun, had come out in strands, framing his face. He was flushed, and there were his lips, unoccupied and so close to his. 

But the music boomed on.

(But I’m sorry I don’t pray that way)

Both of their faces turned pale very very quickly, like reality had just come along and stole the air from their lungs.

Crowley quickly pulled the angel back to his feet. He didn't even bother with a smooth snarky remark, and let go of the angel’s hand. They kind of swayed for the rest of the song, both trying to pretend it wasn't awkward or strange or nice. 

They sat back down at the bar as the last notes faded out. 

The sat in silence, back in their bubble. 

“You know,” Aziraphale said carefully, “I’ve never really danced with another person before.”

“I’m not a person.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

They were in silence again.

“Do you remember,” the demon started slowly, “the great flood?”

“Of course I do.”

“So you remember the rainbow.”

“Yes. God’s promise.”

“For centuries I’ve been trying to find a way to corrupt that symbol. The rainbow, I mean.”

And suddenly, a drink appeared in his hand. Aziraphale was used to this. Usual Crowley dramatics.

“For a while I thought I could get it to stand for something related to one of the seven sins. You know the ones I mean.”

Aziraphale watched him talk. Crowley’s eyes were glowing, he hadn't put his sunglasses back on, but his fingers were itching for them, sometimes half reaching for them before seemingly deciding to think better of it. 

“For a while I thought it could maybe have something to do with prostitution or what not. But that was far too boring. Uninspired.”

He took a long drink. “And,” his eyes darted from side to side, “I almost did it too. But I felt bad. It was beautiful, you know? The rainbow?” 

He looked to Aziraphale, his eyes wide and desperate, needing validation, and needing Aziraphale not to comment on the very undemonic thing he’d just said. 

Aziraphale nodded. He wanted to grab the demon’s hand, to calm him. Even his aura felt on edge all of a sudden.

“But I found the perfect solution a few years back. There was a man in San Francisco. Harvey Milk.” He paused. “He wanted a symbol for the LGBT community. I miracled him a dream. Suggested it for whatever.” 

He sighed, finishing his drink. “Hell loved the idea, but.” He leaned in. “I want you to know I didn't do it for hell, Angel. This felt,” he sighed again. “Important.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I have one in my shop.”

“What?” 

“You're talking about the rainbow flags, yeah? I have one. Saw it in a market.”

Crowley smiled a face-splitting grin. “Really?”

“Yes, Crowley. I’m not totally ignorant about pop culture.”

The demon chortled. “Oh you so are.”

“Excuse you! I listen to-” He sat up straight. “Beebop.”

This sent the demon into a whole mess of giggles. 

It was like that for the rest of the evening.

It was just so.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so sorry for going 2 months without an update. Not even gonna come up with an excuse. Thanks so much for all the kudos- and I hope you enjoy this next chapter. I swear I'm going to start updating again!!!! Anyways, enough from me.

DISCLAIMER: This chaper is kind of written from God's perspective? I wanted to find a way to poetically (as if) cover the events of GO before the rest of the plot resumes. Anyways, that's why it's unlike any of the rest of the series. I promise I'll get back to the usual alternating POVs soon!

 

Now, we all know what happens next. The years fly by, as they do. Crowley has the time of his life supporting the rumors that the world will, indeed, end in 1999. He even attends a party or two. But when the time comes for the seconds to be counted down, he arrives at Aziraphale's door with a bottle of wine and some thoughts about dolphins. 

More years go by. The Americans start a few wars. They win some. They lose some. Even a few other countries get in on the action. It's all very political. More time goes by. There was a few exciting years in there, when countries started legalizing gay marriage (Crowley still did smile every time he saw the rainbow flag,) new music come out, people go on. Society seemed to get so fast all of a sudden. It was strange.

You get the gist. Typical Twenty-First Century bullshit. The usual human things.

And you know this bit too. 2008 rolls around, baskets are pushed into arms, promises are whispered and made and broken. Secrets and anti-christs exchanged. Deals passed all at once. It seemed to all happen just as quickly as the beginning of the new millenium had. Anyways, back to the plot. It was an exciting time. Difficult to arrange. Took six thousand years of planning and plotting. Dice thrown, results playing out, the whole deal. Identities get assumed, children raised, songs sang. You know this part of the story. 

But there are parts that were left out. 

Parts of hands brushing ever so slightly, stares that went just a little too long.

Yet again. So typical. I was almost bored. For two such unusual creatures, Aziraphale and Crowley still managed to be so normal. They bother craved domesticity, something Crowley'd never admit to wanting, something Aziraphale would never admit to wanting with Crowley. The earning, the angst, the not making a move for 6,000 years, it was truly typical. They were trope after trope. Almost human. But so not. 

I'm not going to lie to you, dear reader, it did make the apocalypse far more interesting for me. 

But enough about them. Back to the story you already know. 

And so a child is lost (bloody satanic nuns), and somehow children manage to be far more effective at saving the world then either a demon or an angel, which was a little disappointing. I mean. Really, Crowley? A tire wrench? 

But still. Final stands are taken, etherial forces are stood up too, the whole shebang. It all happens, and it all ends. Just like that.

6000 years of waiting, of knowing that theres a certain arrangement to things, all over. 

And so it begins. Again. 

And like always, it begins with rain.


End file.
